


Spitfire

by carouselfancy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Slow Burn, UST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-02 10:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4057291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carouselfancy/pseuds/carouselfancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She hadn’t wanted to join the Wardens, not really. Mostly, she just wanted vengeance.</p><p>And Alistair, apparently. She very much wanted Alistair. But that one was more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adrift

**Author's Note:**

> I want to preface this story by saying that I have no intention of creating another cookie-cutter spoiled noble who has to learn that life is hard, you can’t always get what you want, etc etc. because people just aren’t that simple. But I DO really want to explore what it would mean to grow up as member of the third most powerful family in Ferelden, having everything you could possibly want and being able to talk your way into pretty much anything, and then to suddenly have nothing, and how that would affect one who became one of the only people who can truly stop the Blight. So while this fic was born from an obsession with the Cousland/Alistair romance and will predominately be about that, it’s turned into a vehicle for me to explore an interesting vengeance arc, as well as Cousland’s inner workings.
> 
> This story is currently not beta-ed, but I'm currently searching for one and thus might end up changing chapters quite a bit after that happens.

The last couple of weeks had been unpleasant, to say the least. Duncan was not the sort of man to offer empty condolences, nor did she want any. She’d had no interest in conversation, had trudged, sullen and broken, behind him on the journey to Ostagar. There had been a heavy tension between them for the entirety of the journey.

She blamed him. For taking her from her parents, for not allowing her to die defending them. She blamed him, if only because he was the only available vessel for her anger. After enough time wore on, exhaustion crept in. The blame subsided, and the anger faded to a quiet burn. By then, the silence had persisted too long and it became too awkward to try and break it.

When they finally did arrive at Ostagar it was to a greeting from the bloody king himself. Her skin itched with her desire to escape. He was just so excited to meet her, so excited about the upcoming battle, so excited about everything in general. It was suffocating her. She hid her discomfort behind forced pleasantries. Every polite "Your Majesty" acted as a shield against his questioning about her family. She thanked him when he vowed to bring Arl Howe to justice and hoped he was too caught up in his grand battle to notice that his words were empty.

The sight of the king talking about a darkspawn horde as though it was a boring family dinner had left her feeling unsettled. She hadn’t joined the Wardens with any true interest in fighting darkspawn. But if she knew anything about them, it was that they were not a force to take lightly, true Blight or not. She was so thrown, that when Duncan spoke of his own misgivings, she had called the king a fool before she could think better of her words.

Her mother would have been appalled.

But her mother wasn’t here.

Duncan was not impressed, either. He had sent her off to search for another Warden named Alistair, telling her to leave her hound with him while she explored the keep. Hessarian was not pleased at this development, and gave her a piteous whine as Duncan led him away towards his camp.

And now she was standing in the middle of a strange camp, alone, without the faintest interest in her surroundings. She wanted Fergus.

He was her reason for agreeing to join the Wardens in the first place. If it would get her to Ostagar, to his side, she hadn’t cared what she’d had to agree to. He was all she had left and she couldn’t look at Castle Cousland without feeling ill anyway. And now she was here, and he was off in the Wilds and it was all she could do not to run out the gates and scream for him until he was by her side.

She ran a shaking hand down her face, feeling altogether overwhelmed and exhausted beyond words.

She forced her legs to move, bypassing the tents of the King and Teyrn Loghain without a second glance. Perhaps she could find a cot and simply sleep for an age. As if Duncan wouldn’t find her and drag her back to his cause.

The camp was full of life, and she found herself surprised at the groups the King had managed to bring together. Chantry mothers, mages, Templars, Ash Warriors and Grey Wardens, all coexisting in peace to rally behind the King’s banners. It was impressive. She gave the mages a wide berth, watching them from the side of her eyes as she hurried past them. She could see some of them enveloped in odd, wispy clouds, and a few others looked as though they were in a deep trance. It sent a chill down her spine and caused her hair to stand on end. She had always found mages to be creepy, and to see so many of them gathered together was disconcerting, at best.

In her search for the Grey Warden Duncan had mentioned, she found her fellow recruits. The first was a twitchy-looking rogue named Daveth who was in the middle of irritating a female soldier with bad lines when she found him. He seemed nice enough, but she told him in no uncertain terms that if she caught him staring at her hindquarters even once, she would feed him his own eyeballs. The second was Ser Jory, a knight from Redcliffe, who was kind but rather uninteresting. She found herself surprised by both of them. Ser Jory seemed capable enough, but not the type to stand out in a crowd, and she found it hard to picture him facing an archdemon. And she found Daveth to be a bit of a fool. Were the Grey Wardens really so desperate?

It left a sour taste in her mouth. When Duncan had first proposed her recruitment to her father, she had aggressively supported the idea. She had never been happy to sit at home and embroider and gossip the way other noblewomen did. Since she was old enough to lift a sword, she had haunted the training yard, practicing with the younger guardsmen and recruits. It had been quite a few years since a recruit had beaten her, and even Ser Gilmore had to be at his best to beat her in a sparring match. She had known for a long time that she would never be content to become the spoiled wife of some highborn lord. To produce equally spoiled lordling babies until she grew old and complacent. And then she would have to find excitement in gossip and illicit affairs. It was an extreme version of the truth, to be sure. After all, her mother had been a fair fighter in her day and seemed quite happy with the life of a teyrna. And she would hesitate before calling her mother complacent. But she wanted more than that. She wanted to earn respect from her deeds, not the blood that flowed through her veins.

She had been so furious when her father would not let her join him at Ostagar. She understood the logic, knew it wasn’t out of coddling but out of necessity. She had to be present at Highever in case anything happened to them. But it didn’t stop her from resenting him for leaving her out of the action. At the time, joining the Wardens seemed a good way to get herself into the fray, and whether she had truly meant to join, she no longer knew. It no longer mattered.

Now, to see her fellow recruits, to see how… average they were, it made her wonder. Had Duncan truly wanted to recruit her because he thought her worthy, a good fighter? Or were the Wardens so desperate for recruits they would accept anyone with enough of a death wish? Her mouth twitched downward at the thought.

She’d had enough exploring. This was giving her too much time to think, and her thoughts were beginning to rebel. If she thought any more on how she’d gotten here, she might find herself a high tower and fling herself from the top of it.

She made her way toward the back of the keep, where she could hear a heated argument between a surly enchanter and a man her age in Warden splintmail. She presumed he was the one Duncan had told her to seek.

Had she met him a couple weeks earlier, everything would have been very different. He was tall and broad, muscular in all the right places, so much her type. Add to that his easy grin and boyish charm and – well, she had left more than one guard recruit just like him in her wake back at Castle Cousland.

But that was before. Before Dairren. Before Arl Howe. Before she had seen what her callousness had wreaked and before Duncan had all but dragged her from her tearful parents.

The mage's angry voice drew her from her darkening thoughts, and she stopped short, eyeing him warily. “What is it now?” the mage snapped at the young Warden. “Haven’t Grey Wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?”

The Warden looked as though it were taking every muscle in his body to be polite as he responded. “I simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother… ser mage.” His nose crinkled at the title, but his insincere smile didn’t falter. “She… desires your presence.”

“What her Reverence ‘desires’ is of no concern to me!” the mage responded angrily. She raised a brow at the man’s ire. “I am busy helping the Grey Wardens – by the _King’s_ orders, I might add!”

The Warden’s smile slipped from his face as he dropped his polite façade. When he spoke again, his voice had lost all sense of entreaty, replaced by a sardonic edge. “Should I have asked her to write a note?” The mage snarled. 

“Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!” 

The younger man's eyebrow arched into a point. “Yes,” he drawled. “I was harassing you by delivering a message.” She couldn’t help the snort that escaped her at his words, and he tilted his head to glance at her. His face broke into a ridiculous grin upon meeting her gaze.

The mage noticed, and scowled. “Your glibness does you no credit.”

Feigning great offense, the Warden brought a scandalized hand to his chest. “And here I thought we were getting along so well! I was even going to name one of my children after you.” His lips pursed and he let his hand fall to his side. “The _grumpy_ one.”

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, the mage shook his head. “Enough. I will speak to the woman if I must.” He turned and stalked past the other man, bumping him roughly with his shoulder as he did so. “Get out of my way, fool.”

The Warden shook his head and gave her a wistful sigh, turning toward her with a genuine smile. “You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”

The unhindered laugh that flew out of her in response caught her by surprise. It was the first time she’d done so since she’d left Highever. She crossed her arms over her chest, fingers clasping tight to her arms. “I know exactly what you mean,” she replied wryly.

His grin grew wider, and her eyes followed that spectacular eyebrow as it arched once more. “It’s like a party! We could all stand in a circle and hold hands. _That_ would give the darkspawn something to think about.” His head tilted to the side, and the gesture made him look rather like Hessarian when he was listening for rabbits. He was looking at her as though he were only just now seeing her. “Wait – we haven’t met, have we? I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage.”

She raised a brow, resisting the urge to scoff. “Am I wearing robes or wielding a staff?”

He smirked. “You never know, these mages sneak up on you.” Realization dawned on him then, and he snapped his fingers. “Wait, I do know who you are. You’re Duncan’s new recruit, from Highever! I should have recognized you right away, I apologize.” She waved away his apology and offered a small smile instead.

“And you must be Alistair.”

He seemed to perk up a bit. “Did Duncan mention me?” There was that eyebrow again. “Nothing bad, I hope?”

Her brow furrowed. “Just that I should find you for the ritual.”

Alistair nodded. He seemed to grow pensive as he studied her. “As the junior member of the order, I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining.”

She looked to the longsword and shield on his back. There was an assured rigidity in his broad shoulders, and she felt comforted by this information. He had the build of a defender, and his stance told her that he was a skilled fighter. If she was to have a babysitter, at least they’d provided one who was easy on the eyes _and_ knew what he was doing.

She gave him the best smile she could muster, holding out a hand for him to shake. He reached for it without hesitation, and she could feel the warmth of his skin even through the leather of his gloves. His hands were large enough that the calloused fingers poking out of the end of his gloves touched against her wrist.

"Pleased to meet you," she responded, hiding annoyance at the blood she could feel creeping into her cheeks. “I’m Olivia.”


	2. Deserter

Olivia found herself quite glad for Alistair’s company, as it turned out. Where she had felt as though she were a lost child when she had been wandering on her own, he filled the silence with easy conversation. It gave her something to focus on beside how much she did not want to be here. 

He was the first person who seemed to care about how she was faring, as well. He didn’t ask her endless questions about her family, about her loss. He may not have even known. And yet his voice was kind when he asked her if she had ever fought darkspawn before, and spoke of how frightened he’d been his first time. She knew she was probably latching onto a friendly face in her brother’s absence, but that did not lessen the comfort she found in Alistair’s easy presence.

“So,” she began, starting down the ramp, “if you don’t mind my prying, what was that argument all about?” 

He fell into step next to her, his armor clinking pleasantly as he did. “With the mage?” He scoffed. “The Circle is here at the King’s request and the Chantry doesn’t like that one bit.” She swore she could actually hear him roll his eyes. “They just love letting mages know how unwelcome they are.”

Olivia couldn’t help but feel surprised at his tone. Her initial impression of him had led her to believe he had just as little patience for mages as she did. Yet he sounded rather disapproving when he spoke of the Chantry’s treatment of them. 

“Which puts me in a bit of a bit of an awkward position. I was once a Templar.” 

 _Oh_. And now she was even more intrigued, as well as confused. He had the sort of golden boy look she had always imagined to be requisite for a Templar, but he hadn’t struck her as particularly… reverent. She hadn’t been around Templars and mages much in Highever, but what she had heard about the Circle… 

“You were a mage-hunter?” she blurted, her steps halting as she turned to stare at him. He stopped as well. His brow furrowed a bit at her response and she bit her lip, abashed. 

“Not that that’s all Templars do, but…” He raised an arm to scratch his ear, his mouth giving a wry twitch. “Yes. The Chantry raised me until Duncan recruited me six months ago.” He started walking once more, and she followed him instinctively. “I’m sure the Revered Mother meant it as an insult – sending me as her messenger – and the mage picked right up on that.” He sighed now, and his next words held a note of petulance that made her grin. “I never would have agreed to deliver it, but Duncan says we’re all to cooperate and get along. Apparently they didn’t get the same speech.” 

She chuckled. “And now you have the lucky task of following around green recruits. Making sure they don’t get their heads lopped off or wander off a cliff face before they have the chance to be useful to the crown. You must have made someone angry.” They had stopped again at some point, and they were in front of the quartermaster’s stall. She perused idly, admiring the craftsmanship of his daggers. 

Alistair laughed, and the sound was unrestrained and pleasant. “It’s the Revered Mother – she fancies me. It makes all the other Wardens jealous and so they stick me with the tasks they don’t want.” He gave a dramatic sigh. “It’s very difficult, being so devastatingly handsome.”

“Oh, I’m sure!” she exclaimed, holding her hand over her heart. “I myself have to look away, lest I stare too long and my knees go weak.”

His cheeks flushed, though she could see him struggling to quell it, and she laughed, victorious. With an awkward cough, he grinned at her and shook his head. “Somehow, I doubt _you’ve_ ever swooned in your life.” 

There was a long pause in which Olivia could feel her skin tingling at his words. They were innocuous enough, yet somehow, he made it sound like a compliment. She turned away from him, suddenly needing to escape his gaze. She picked up a nearby sword, feigning great interest as she examined it. 

“Good blade, that.” The quartermaster had found his way to them. He scanned her with discerning eyes, taking in the longsword and dagger strapped to her back. "Though it looks as though you’ve already got yourself a good longsword. I could recommend some daggers or axes if you’ve a mind, though.” Olivia touched the hilt of the sword at her back, finding comfort in the feel of the gilded heirloom under her fingers. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of coin at the moment, ser,” she responded with a polite smile. The words felt strange on her lips, and settled, heavy, intrusive, in her gut. “I will have to make due, for now.” 

He gave her a grunt and a curt nod, already turning to greet the next patron. “I’ll be here when you do,” he said as he did so. 

With a last glance at his wares, she gave a long sigh. “I won’t hold my breath.” She turned to Alistair, affecting a wry smile. “I’ve heard that joining the Grey Wardens is not an ideal choice for those who enjoy the feel of coin in their hands.” 

He gave her an apologetic grin. “’Coin?’ Ha. I’ve heard tell of this ‘coin’ you speak of. Sounds like a myth to me.” 

Olivia felt the corners of her lips turn up into a smile, and opened her mouth to respond. But the words died in her throat at the sound of a nearby voice shouting angrily. 

“ _Please_! I know you can hear me, all I want is some food! You can’t treat people this way!” Her brows furrowed in curiosity, and she made her way up a ramp toward the sound. 

She rounded a corner to find a caged man in filthy smallclothes, grasping desperately at the bars with white-knuckled fists. In front of his cage, an annoyed-looking guard steadfastly ignored his pleas. Her frown deepened at the sight of him, and he stood on shaking legs to stare down at her as she approached. His glare was only half-hearted, though. She could see exhaustion furrowed in the deep lines of his face. 

“Huh. Someone finally comes and talks to the lone prisoner? I don’t suppose you’ve come to sentence me.” His words were low and bitter. 

Olivia balked in surprise. “No, I… You haven’t been sentenced?” 

With a scowl, he crouched down to sit once more. “No. They put someone like me in a cage until someone important has time to decide what to do with me.” He looked up at her, his eyes dull and hopeless. “I don’t suppose you have a bit of kindness in you? All I want is food and water. They haven’t fed me since I was locked up, and I’m starving.” 

She felt a rush of pity for the man, but underneath, something darker, a gnawing twinge that pulled at the corners of her mouth. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him, long and thoughtful. “Tell me why you’re in there, first.” 

“I’m a deserter.” He heaved a loaded sigh. “Or so they think. I bet there’s no arguing them out of it though – armies are funny that way.” 

Her frown deepened. “Did you desert?” 

“I wasn’t deserting!” His voice was insistent, and there was an edge of desperation to it. “But when you catch someone sneaking around camp in the middle of the night, what else are you going to think?” He glared at her now, fierce and indignant. “Does it matter? All I want is a bit of food and water!”

She blinked owlishly at him, finally shaking her head, feeling as though she had water in her ears. “A prisoner shouldn’t be left to rot and starve just because his jailers can’t bother to look at him. I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Thank you.” His voice was heavy with relief. “Maybe you can ask my guard for his. He’s still got some dinner. I saw him put it in his coat.” 

Olivia looked now to the guard, who was still ignoring her presence, and she frowned deeply. He chanced a glance at her from the corner of his eye, and she narrowed her eyes at him. 

He looked away quickly. 

She and Alistair exchanged a look of unspoken annoyance. 

“Well, now I know you’re not blind. Are you deaf as well, that you couldn’t hear this man pleading with you from three paces away?” He continued to pretend as though he couldn’t hear her, so she planted herself firmly in front of his face, her hands landing heavily on her hips. “Is it really so difficult to spare a bit of food for a doomed man?” 

The guard seemed to snap then. “And ‘ow exactly am I supposed to do that? Since nobody sends me nothin' to feed him with, the only way he’ll get that is if I give him mine!” She raised a pointed brow. He flinched. “I’m gonna need that food later! I ‘ave a long shift of standing ‘ere doing nothin' and it works up a man’s appetite!” 

Alistair made a small noise of disgust from behind her. “Who could imagine such a terrible fate?” His question was dry and scathing. 

Her eyes bored, relentless, into the guard’s. “So you miss one meal.” She made no attempt to pretend at sympathy. “This man is about to be hanged.” 

The guard looked away from her, his face still reluctant, and he wrung his hands in front of him for a long moment. 

Finally, Olivia huffed in outrage. She snatched her coin purse from her belt and held it out to him, glaring. “Here. Since simple human decency seems too hard for you, I’ll give you ten silvers for it.”

Indignant, the guard huffed. “I was gonna give it anyway.” Still, his hand snatched out and took the purse from hers, replacing it with a sorry lump wrapped in brown paper. She didn’t want to find out what it was he had hoarded away, and was sure it was only barely fit for consumption. It would have to do “I had nothin’ to do with it though!” he added quickly. “If anyone asks why he’s burpin’ I’m gonna say it was you! Just so you know.” She gave him one last look of revulsion before walking back to the prisoner and handing the package through the bars of the cage. 

He smiled at her so thankfully she had to look away. “Much obliged. May Andraste herself rain blessings upon you!” With desperation, he began ripping into the paper. 

“Maker go with you,” she mumbled to him. She forced herself to turn away, and shook her head.

She glanced up at Alistair, eyeing him through the chunk of black curls that hung in front of her eye. He must have thought her a fool for handing the last of her coin to that idiot, and no doubt he was impatient to get to Duncan and finish his task. But when her eyes found him, he was looking at her with something else in his eyes. It was an odd expression, one she couldn’t quite read. 

“Come on,” she said to him sourly, looking away from his gaze as she stalked past him. “Let’s just get to Duncan. It’s about time we get on with this Joining.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if this chapter was slow, but I wanted to establish some important characterization for Olivia here before she becomes a Warden and everything gets all crazy, because Cousland's life has a lot of turmoil in quick succession and it's important to me to establish a clear difference between Olivia Cousland and the Hero of Ferelden.


	3. Hemorrhage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kicked up the rating and warnings for this chapter. Also a warning for PTSD symptoms, for which I hope I did justice.

There was no more easy banter between them as they made their way to the Warden camp. Olivia had lost her appetite for talk, and for his part, Alistair seemed too lost in thought to notice her stormy silence. The starving prisoner had left a bad taste in her mouth, and she couldn’t put her finger on what it was about him that had bothered her so much.

She worried at the inside of her cheek with her teeth. Everything here felt so foreign to her. She had spent plenty of time loitering around the barracks back in Highever, taunting the guards and practicing swordplay. They never seemed as hard as the troops at Ostagar. The air was thick with tension, and there was a note of something darker underneath, something she could not place. She had at first written it off as the air of war looming over them, but then she had looked closer. Many of the groups in this camp were dissonant, that was true. The mages resented the Chantry who resented the Wardens, and the Ash Warriors seemed to resent everybody. 

But it was deeper than even that. 

These soldiers resented their leader.

Or rather, leaders.

It was as though nobody was quite sure to whom they were to answer. The King and Teyrn Loghain had been arguing with one another relentlessly. She would have known this even if almost every person she had spoken to hadn't mentioned the fact. Outwardly, the King was confident, almost cocksure, about their ability to win this upcoming battle. Yet the Teyrn was dour and angry almost exclusively. And despite King Cailan’s assurances, the soldiers were drilling around the clock. The Chantry mothers were offering somber prayers for anyone who would listen. And the deserter…

The deserter.

They had thrown him in a cage, ignored him and starved him, for the mere perception of desertion. During times of peace, the punishment for desertion was imprisonment, dishonorable discharge. In war, it was often death. But for the entire keep to simply lock him away and forget about him? They were either so overburdened with preparations for a battle they were not ready for, or they were anticipating needing every man they could possibly get.

More likely, both were true.

And that unnerved her.

The more she thought about it, the more unsettled she became. There was so much conflict between what she was hearing about this battle, and what she was seeing. King Cailan assured them all that the fight would be easy, and short, and that there was no true Blight coming. His actions were telling a different story.

Hessarian let out a happy bark as Olivia came upon the blazing Warden campfire. The rumbling bass of it startled her out of her brooding. She gave him a half-hearted smile and patted his broad head. Beside him was Duncan, somber as ever, dark eyes glinting from the fire. Daveth was rocking on the balls of his feet. Ser Jory was wringing his hands and looking jumpy.

Duncan didn’t bother with niceties as he caught her approach. “You found Alistair, did you? Good. I’ll assume you’re ready to begin preparations.” He turned now to give Alistair a withering look of disapproval. The younger Warden had taken his place beside his senior, and his spine seemed to straighten ever so slightly in his presence. “Assuming, of course, that you’re quite finished riling up mages, Alistair?”

Duncan’s tone reminded her of her father on the many occasions he had caught her sneaking out of her lessons. Her heart clenched at the thought, and she pushed down on the lump that rose in her throat.

Alistair gave him a nonchalant shrug.

“What can I say, the Revered Mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army.” The edge of his lips quirked up in a cheeky smirk.

Quirking a sharp black brow, Duncan looked less than amused. “She forced you to sass the mage, did she?” Alistair quickly wiped the smirk from his face. Olivia couldn’t help but feel the smallest bit disappointed with the loss of it. The older Warden grew more serious. “We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We don’t need to give anyone more ammunition against us.” 

To his credit Alistair seemed genuinely contrite, but there was a hint of hesitation behind his next words. “You’re right, Duncan. I… apologize.” 

With the slightest shake of his head, Duncan turned back to look at his recruits. “Now then. Since you’re all here, we can begin. You four will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks. The first is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit.”

Olivia’s heart began to race, thudding against her chest like a war drum. Her mouth opened before she could think better of her question. “The… Korcari Wilds? Isn’t that where His Majesty said my brother is scouting?”

Duncan’s dark gaze felt piercing. “It is. Though I doubt your task will take you near his patrol. Nor do I recommend that you allow yourself to become distracted from it.” His voice softened, so slight that Olivia thought perhaps she had imagined it. “I am sure the two of you will reunite soon enough. But for now, you must focus.”

She could feel Alistair’s eyes on her. She swallowed thickly, sure her throat was closing on her. The thought of being in the same vicinity as her brother made her hands shake. It was near impossible to ignore the intense desire to see him, to hear his voice, if only for a moment.

With a resolution she absolutely did not feel, she nodded. “R-right. And… what do we need the darkspawn blood for?”

“For the Joining itself. I’ll explain more once you’ve returned.” Fantastic. Vague non-answers about mysterious rituals that would change her life forever were so very comforting. She sighed, trying to keep annoyance from coloring her words.

“And what’s the second task?”

“There was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them.” He turned to look at Alistair, serious face was the picture of duty. “Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can.”

“Is this part of our Joining, too?” Olivia closed her mouth so fast her teeth snapped together. She had failed rather spectacularly at hiding her annoyance. Oops. Her cheeks colored, and she was thankful when Duncan ignored the tone of her voice.

“No,” he replied, ever patient, “but the effort must be made. I have every confidence you are up to the task.” His mouth twitched in what Olivia thought might be the Duncan version of a smile.

She nodded, overeager, desperate to give at least some semblance of a decent soldier. Her father had once told her that she was far too stubborn and mouthy, too questioning of authority, to ever be able to be anything as simple as a soldier. Perhaps now that she was to be a Warden, it was time to take his advice.

“What kind of scrolls are these?”

Maker, but she was terrible at this. 

Duncan's brow ticked upward. “Old treaties, if you’re curious. Promises of support made to the Grey Wardens long ago. They were once considered only formalities. With so many having forgotten their commitments to us, I suspect it may be a good idea to have something to remind them with.” 

Olivia nodded, and she could feel Alistair looking at her expectantly. With narrowed eyes, she squared her shoulders and raised her chin, defiant. “Find the archive and three vials of blood. Understood.” 

Duncan looked to Alistair once more. “Watch over your charges, Alistair. Return quickly and safely.” 

The junior Warden's chin gave the slightest tilt downward. “We will.” 

“Then may the Maker watch over your path. I will see you when you return.” 

* * *

The Korcari Wilds were just about as unpleasant as she had imagined them to be. Cold, fetid swamplands with broken down trees littered everywhere and a vague, brown filter on every bit of earth and sky. She hadn’t expected them to be much of a frolic, but, well, there was frolicking, and then there was “descended upon by wolves right out the gate.”

Which they were. Quite literally. And a veritable horde of them.

In the weeks she had accompanied Duncan from Highever to Ostagar, he had limited their traveling to the daytime. They had taken lesser-known paths and slept in out-of-the-way groves when they could. It had allowed them to successfully avoid trouble in the long journey. But it had left Olivia with the pent-up feeling of needing to hit something very hard with her blades. 

At the first opportunity, she faltered. 

The wolves came tearing down the first hill, snarling and snapping their enormous jaws. Alistair, at the front, did not so much as pause in the face of the creatures, whipping his sword and shield from his back in a blur of singing metal. Ser Jory pulled his greatsword from his back with an elegant flourish. Daveth’s daggers were a blur of steel as he twirled them in his hands and grinned at the savage beasts. 

Olivia’s limbs would not move. 

She knew the stance, knew exactly how she would draw and attack. She could picture herself doing it with ease, but her muscles were not moving, no matter how hard she willed them. The earth was beginning to shift underneath her feet. 

And then the wolves were dead, and she was still standing with her hands at her sides, staring at the nearest body. Daveth gave his daggers a quick scrape in the grass, while Jory wiped the blood from his greatsword with a scrap of cloth from his pocket. Alistair did the same, but his gaze flicked toward Olivia as he sheathed his sword on his back. 

“Everyone alive?” he asked, his voice casual. Daveth shrugged. 

Swallowing hard, Olivia shook the daze from her mind and nodded at him. None of them said anything about her strange lapse, and they continued moving through the swamp. 

They hadn't walked twenty paces before they came upon the grizzly sight of a destroyed caravan. Dead cattle littered the road. Blood painted the grass, and she could hear the faint voice of a wounded soldier scraping himself toward them. Her stomach roiled. 

“Who… is that? Grey… Wardens?” The man was trailing blood behind him, but his eyes were bright and desperate as he looked up at them. 

“Well,” quipped Alistair casually, “he’s not half as dead as he looks, is he?”

Olivia gave him a sharp look and he shrugged.

“My scouting band was attacked by darkspawn! They came out of the ground… Please, help me! I’ve got to… return to camp.” 

Her blood turned cold. Alistair was reaching into his pack for bandages, and her fists clenched so hard she could feel her fingernails creating half-moon indents in her palm. Her knees shook. “Your scouting band?” Her voice died in her throat at her first attempt, and when the words did escape her it was in a barely audible breath. Alistair kneeled beside the injured man, deft fingers rolling bandages over the gaping wound in his side. Olivia dropped to her knees in front of the scout and grabbed at his shoulders. “Were you with Fergus Cousland’s band?” The scout gaped at her, gasped in pain and she realized she was shaking him. She released her fists, fingers spread wide, and with nothing to hold on to she felt as though she would sink into the earth in his silence. “ _Please_.” 

After a moment of his mouth gaping like a fish, he nodded. Olivia choked on her breath, stifling a gasp by taking a knuckle hard into her teeth. His gaze was sorrowful as it flooded with recognition. 

“Is he – “ The question fell to ash in her mouth, the taste of it sour on her tongue. He shook his head. 

“I don’t know, my lady.” 

Olivia ran a shaking hand through her fringe as Alistair tied off the bandages, her fingers grasping hard at the roots. The scout stood, staggering.

“Thank you, I – I’ve got to get out of here.” He began to limp away from them, but paused, glancing at her. “I’m sorry. I’ll inform the King as soon as I can, I – he can send out a search party, I’m sure.” 

She could only stare after him, blood pumping in her ears. Icy panic was surging through her, nausea bubbling in her gut, and she stared hard at the ground, breathing deep. She barely registered the sounds of Jory and Alistair’s voices. The buzzing under her skin was drowning out the actual words. Gore and death surrounded her, and any one of these bodies could be her brother’s. Or none of them could. She had no way of knowing if he had survived this attack, no way of knowing whether her entire journey here had been for nothing. He was all she had left – he was the _Teyrn_ – and now he could be dead. She could be standing – no. 

Without evidence for either outcome, did she have any choice other than to believe that he was still out there? Somewhere, in the Wilds, possibly needing rescue. 

Jory’s voice reached her ears in a dull roar. “How do you know? I’m not a coward, but this is foolish and reckless! We should go back!” She looked at him then, took in his anxious face and the knit of Alistair’s brow, and frowned. 

Pulling her swords from their sheaths, squaring her shoulders, she gave him a dull look. “You sound like a coward to me.” 

She didn’t stay to listen to his protests, but marched ahead of them, staunchly ignoring the mess of blood and bodies around her. 

* * *

Alistair caught up to her not long after. She could hear the soft _clink_ of his armor as he trotted to fall in step with her, mimicking the easy pace they had set back at Ostagar. But she was far from at ease now.

“Are you all right?” His voice was soft, hesitant, as though he wasn’t sure how to address her. She was sure she must have made quite the spectacle of herself. She could not bring herself to meet his gaze and try to assess what he must think of her. 

She gave him a casual shrug instead. “I’m fine. I just want to get a move on.” 

A long, thoughtful pause. The rhythmic sound of his armor was matching her steps in perfect time. “You seemed a little tense. I wanted to make sure you weren’t – “ 

“I’m not afraid,” she interrupted. Her voice came out sharp, harsher than she had intended, and she bit her lip. Softer, and with as much sincerity as she could muster, she added, “Thank you for your concern.”

He frowned, a deep wrinkle forming between his eyebrows, but he did not correct her. 

“Ser Jory’s nervousness is not unfounded, but none of you need worry. All Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee they won’t take us by surprise. That’s why I’m here.” 

His voice was gentle, reassuring. She found it surprising, for a man who had only been a Warden for a few months. He was quickly growing on her, this former Chantry boy. Olivia couldn’t help but smile at him. 

“You see, ser knight!” Daveth’s voice rang out behind her. “We might die, but we’ll be warned about it first!” 

Ser Jory’s responding groan sounded strained. “That is… reassuring?” 

Alistair shook his head and gave them both a pointed look over his shoulder. “That doesn’t mean I’m here to make it easy, however.” He returned his eyes to her, and they were warm and kind. “But I do want to make sure you’re all holding up all right. A bit of fear isn’t unnatural. Few relish meeting darkspawn up close. I know I don’t.” 

Olivia smirked, tilting her head at him. “Well, then it appears I am the only man here!” 

He rewarded her with a grin and an arched brow. “I know _I’m_ relying on you to protect me. I – hold.” His arm reached out to cross over her, and she nearly knocked herself over running into its solid mass as he stopped. His face had grown alert and serious, his eyes narrowed. He looked suddenly quite dangerous. “Darkspawn.”

The sound of metal sang through the air as her three companions drew their weapons, and she was ready this time. She squared her feet and raised her blades, just as the Blighted creatures came tearing at them from the hill ahead. 

Her feet were moving before she had even commanded them, and she held her longsword protectively across her body. Alistair and Ser Jory were not far behind her, and Daveth seemed to have disappeared into thin air. 

There was a low, terrifying laugh from the creature nearest her, and the sound sent shivers across her body. Its face was sunken and grey, and its eyes milky with death. But the worst was its mouth, a wide, gaping grin full of horrible teeth and black ooze. 

She could feel her body freezing up again. The creature swiped at her with its sword, grinning that awful grin, and she only barely managed to jump back in time. When it lunged to swipe again, her swords crossed in front of her, almost of their own accord. They caught its blade, and it seemed to break her stupor. She shoved it back, and kicked out a leg to break its knee. It went down like a sack of stones, and she scissored her blades into its gaping mouth. Its flesh tore like parchment, gore splattering her from the hole where the top half of its head had been only moments before. Everything seemed to slow down. Her body began to move like a puppet, slashing into every creature that came before her. She felt strange, detached, as though she were watching her body move from the outside. Yet she could still feel the blood that splattered her face, sprayed her armor, and could smell the stench of rot and decay that came with it. Her blood ran cold in her veins, and she shut her eyes tight to take in a deep breath. 

When she opened them again, she felt her entire body stiffen. The opponent barreling toward her was no darkspawn, there was no stench or gaping maw. He was a man, wearing the armor and crest of Arl Howe, and the scream that ripped from her throat left it raw and tight. She leapt at him with both blades ready to run him through, and he rebuffed her with his shield, but it didn’t matter. She lunged at him again, and her dagger slipped past his shield and sliced through the tendons of the arm that held it. He gave an inhuman screech as it bounced away, landing uselessly in the dirt. She used the distraction to flip the blade around in her hand and pin it in his chest. With a strike from the pommel of her longsword, he toppled to the ground. She fell with him, bracing herself for the impact by pressing her knee against his chest. When they landed, she could see the life leave his eyes, could feel his body slacken beneath her, but she did not stop. She couldn’t. She pulled the dagger from his chest and stabbed into him again, and again, and again. Gore splashed her with each downward stroke. Someone was screaming. And then everything went black. 

* * *

When she came to, it was to find herself straddling a darkspawn corpse, her weapons dangling limp at her side. She couldn’t hear anything over the deafening roar in her ears. She leapt from the creature, limbs shaking, and flinched when she felt a strong grip on her arm. Alistair’s face came into view, and he was kneeling in front of her, eyes burning with concern. His mouth was moving but she couldn’t hear what he was saying, could only hear the blood pumping in her ears as the earth tilted. 

“Olivia? Can you hear me?” His grip was strong on her shoulders, and she was thankful for it, else she would have toppled over. She looked at him, not quite registering what he was saying, and furrowed her brow in concentration. “Are you all right? Can you talk to me?” 

She opened her mouth to respond, but instead had to turn quickly away from him as she retched. 

With her stomach empty, her skin began to buzz as sensation returned to her body, and everything felt loud and intense. She looked down to find herself utterly drenched in dark, almost black, blood. It coated her arms and her weapons, and she could feel it on her face. She dropped her weapons as if they had burned her, and with a choked cry, swiped desperately at her arms with shaking hands. There was so much of it, it was _everywhere_ , and every pass of her hands only spread it further across her body. She could feel a sob clench in her throat, and the blood remained. 

And then she could feel the burning touch of hands on hers. Alistair stopped her desperate motions, and he met her eyes with his solid, honey brown ones. “Look at me. You’re all right. It’s dead, and you’re fine. Can you feel my hands?” 

She looked down at where his large fingers grasped at her wrists, and she nodded dumbly, swallowing hard. Her skin felt like sandpaper, and the callouses of his fingers chafed on her skin. 

“Good. Can you stand?” 

She nodded again, but her legs felt like jelly. When she tried, they gave out. His hands were on her arms, holding her upright, until they solidified again and she could support her own weight. 

“What – what happened?” Her voice sounded strange to her, small and far away, as if it belonged to another. 

He bent to pick up her weapons, wiping them in the grass as he did, and handed them to her gingerly. “I’m not sure. I looked over and you were screaming, covered in blood and hacking it to bits.” His eyes scanned her face. “Did you get anything in your mouth?” 

She touched her tongue to her palate, and could taste only sour bile. She shook her head. “I don’t think so.” 

“Good. You’ve done well. But we have quite a bit more to go. Do you think you’ll be all right?” 

She had no idea. Her limbs were becoming more solid now, and the blood that had turned to ice in her veins seemed to be pumping more regularly now. But she was still covered in blood, and it was burning her skin. And that had only been their first fight. She looked to Ser Jory and Daveth, who were making an effort not to meet her eyes, and her cheeks flushed. She must look a sight, like some mad shrieking creature from the Void. She subconsciously wiped at her face again, but only managed to smear it with even more blood. She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. 

“I think so.” 

He nodded, and when they took the first steps to make their way deeper into the Wilds, she could feel thick tension in the air. Her companions had no more confidence in her ability to handle this than she did. Alistair stayed close behind her, as though afraid she would fall over any moment.

Yet when they next encountered darkspawn, she didn't even have time to lose herself. His hand landed, solid and real, on the small of her back, before he charged ahead of her. The warmth he never seemed to lose flooded her skin in a rush of heat, and she drew her weapons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone else find it worrying that after we're told that Fergus is off scouting, we find a destroyed scout patrol? And then we find out at the end of the game that Fergus's patrol WAS attacked?


	4. Joined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuuuugh this update took forever because I got slammed by various commitments. But mostly because I am 100% aware that this chapter is not interesting but at the same time it is still necessary. So I was dragging my feet on it oops. I swear though, from here on out, we’re pretty much done transcribing the game to the degree that I have been and we're gonna start zooming through uninteresting stuff. The chapters from here on out are gonna be like 90% fluff and bonding for these nerds and I’m so pumped please bear with me.

Olivia was incredibly uncomfortable.

She planted her feet carefully as she strafed away from the odd wilder woman. She had noticed the woman’s staff right away, but she refused to look away from the piercing, catlike eyes that were boring into hers. Her fingers flexed at her sides, but she did not make a move toward her weapons. The woman stood confident in the face of four armed soldiers, mocked them, laughed at them. It told her that the mage held power far greater than they could imagine, and she had no desire to provoke her. 

Bright yellow met green as the two women circled each other. Olivia could hear Daveth shuffling uncomfortably behind her. She was not as afraid as the thief, for she put no stock in silly wives’ tales of witches turning men to frogs and snatching up children. But she was also not foolish enough to think her swords would be enough protection from a potential apostate. 

Alistair had been harder to read than Daveth. He had not yet drawn his blade against the woman, but Olivia could practically hear the muscles in his sword arm flexing. His voice had been low and foreboding when he had warned her not to trust the mage, and she knew his instincts were good.

But for all the mage mocked and disregarded the men, she seemed strangely fascinated by Olivia, even as she prowled around her. She had addressed her directly, and asked her for her name. Olivia couldn’t help but be curious at the strange pseudo-camaraderie the other woman offered. She stopped her defensive strides, pulling herself up to her full height and offering the best attempt she could make at a smile.

“I am Olivia. A pleasure to meet you.” She winced when she heard her mother’s voice come out of her mouth. 

The “witch’s” nose crinkled and Olivia could see a flash of surprise cross her features. “Now that is a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds.” She lifted her chin, looking like a proud feline. “You may call me Morrigan. Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?” 

Alistair stepped forward to stand at Olivia’s side. If she didn’t know better she would think the action almost protective. “’Here no longer?’ You stole them, didn’t you? You’re… some kind of… sneaky… witch-thief!” 

Both women turned to stare at him in unison. Olivia was starting to feel as though she was having some sort of ridiculous dream. Morrigan was smirking. “How very eloquent. How does one steal from dead men?” 

Alistair was not as amused, and crossed his arms over his chest. His voice seemed to drop a few notes as it grew more officious. “Quite easily, it seems. Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them.” 

Morrigan was not phased in the least, and crossed her own arms in what could only be taunting mimicry. She met Alistair’s steely gaze with nonchalance. “I will not, for ‘twas not I who removed them.” She gave him a dismissive tilt of the head, and it was easy to forget that she was a fair bit shorter and great amount smaller than him. “Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not threatened.” 

Olivia rested gentle fingers against Alistair’s forearm, and he looked at her with confusion. She gave him a very faint shake of her head. Not for the first time, she was grateful for the easy partnership they had forged in the short time she had known him. He stepped back, though he still looked concerned. 

She was realizing quickly that threats and force meant nothing to the strange mage, and decided it was time to employ her mother’s favorite battle tactic. “Then who removed them?” Manners. 

“’Twas my mother, in fact.” Morrigan was still smirking. Olivia tried not to sigh, and smiled winningly instead. 

“Can you take us to her?” 

The mage gave her an outright grin. Olivia wondered if she had caught a glimpse of sharpened canines in the other woman’s mouth, or if she had imagined it. “Hmm. There is a sensible request. I like you.” Her voice was almost predatory. 

There was a strangled exhalation of air from Alistair that may have been a laugh or perhaps a scoff. “I’d be careful. First, it’s, ‘I like you…’ but then zap! Frog time.” Olivia shook her head and chuckled despite herself.

“She’ll put us all in the pot, she will. Just you watch.” Daveth was still looking rather squirrelly, half hiding behind Alistair’s broader shoulders. Jory rolled his eyes and sheathed his sword with a decisiveness that was not particularly convincing. 

“If the pot’s warmer than this forest, it’ll be a nice change!” 

Morrigan’s predatory smile had not faltered as she eyed Olivia with great interest. She unfolded her arms and turned her back on them to head away from the ruins. “Follow me, then,” she called over her shoulder, “if it pleases you.” 

* * *

The walk back to Ostagar from Morrigan's hut was strange and awkward. Morrigan seemed to have run the spectrum of her conversational skills back at the Tevinter ruin. Olivia's companions still seemed rather convinced that she would turn them to a toad at any moment. 

Morrigan's mother had been quite a puzzle. Olivia found herself lost in thought as she tried to understand the strange things the witch had told them. She had seemed more than a little mad, and yet Olivia had the feeling she had told them more truth than they knew. Her words still rang in her ears. 

 _“Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize!”_  

They left a bad taste in her mouth, and a lingering discomfort in her belly. 

Morrigan dumped them unceremoniously outside the gate to Ostagar, and it seemed as though she could not escape from them fast enough. Olivia didn't blame her. The fortress was foreboding and full of Templars, and she was sure now that the dark-haired mage was an apostate. 

Alistair shook his head at her retreating back. He and the other recruits began to make their way through the gate, but Olivia reached out before she could stop herself. She touched the junior Warden's bicep with tentative fingers. He glanced back at her with surprised eyes and she paused. Her hand had been running faster than her brain, and her heart thumped against her chest when his eyes landed on hers. “Can I – can we speak privately, for just a moment?” 

His brow furrowed but he nodded, turning to the other recruits and jerking his head toward the gate. “Go find Duncan. We’ll catch up.” 

Daveth gave a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows and Olivia could feel her ears turn red. She tried to glare at the thief but he simply chuckled at her attempt. He disappeared through the gate with a shaking head before she could so much as think about retaliation. 

To his credit, Alistair was quiet and patient as he waited for her to speak her mind. He gave her a small, encouraging smile, and she almost wished he would tease her instead. She crossed her arms tight over her chest. 

“I just… wanted to thank you. For helping me, after those darkspawn attacked.”

His eyes widened in surprise and she could see a faint tinge of pink brush across his nose. “Oh, that." He gave a small, nervous chuckle, lifting a hand to rub the back of his neck. “I just… I thought it might… It happens, sometimes, with Wardens, and I’ve seen Duncan…. well…” 

Her brow furrowed and she looked away from him, trying to keep her expression neutral and feeling more jittery now than she had all day. “I just want to make sure you know that won’t happen again. I’m not…” She swallowed hard, focusing on her boots and nudging at a pebble in the dirt. “I won’t be weak.” 

“What? No, I – “ She heard him clear his throat and her cheeks burst into flames when his hand landed on her shoulder. She knew he was looking at her but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. Her heart was thudding in her chest again and she felt an inexplicable rush of anger at the feeling. Her brother, her only remaining family, was either dead or lost in the Wilds, and here she was blushing like a schoolgirl because some Chantry boy with nice hands smiled at her. It was foolish and selfish, and her father would have been ashamed if he could see her. She felt a large lump form in her throat and pulled away from Alistair’s hand, shaking her head.

“I won’t be weak,” she repeated. She could feel wetness forming in her eyes now, and she pushed past him into the gate so he would not see.

* * *

Agony. Splitting, screeching agony like nothing she had ever felt before. 

It began only seconds after the vile contents of the cup had slid down her throat. She felt as though her skull had split open. As if a thousand needles were piercing her skin with fire, with poison, with ice. She could feel it in her veins. 

She barely registered that someone took the chalice from her hands as she fell to her knees. She could see the edge of the red pool of Jory’s blood creeping toward her knees and gleaming against the stones in the moonlight. 

Her bones were snapping and breaking, her skin was tearing from those bones in ribbons and wrapping back around anew. She could feel the song spreading through her like a storm. It was quiet at first, and then buffeting against her brain with agonizing screeches and clangs. Her vision blurred from into a sick green. Ostagar vanished before her, and in its place was a hideous beast with dead white eyes and gleaming, razor sharp teeth. The dragon glared at her, and she could feel dread spread through her like a long-fingered hand under its gaze. When it opened its gaping maw to roar at her, the sound shuddered through her body and shook her to the core. And then velvety darkness enveloped her. 

When she came to, it was to see the faces of Alistair and Duncan looming before her, and she was lying on her back. They had not moved her, and Jory’s blood had crept even further around her. She slammed her eyelids closed and breathed as deep as she could, feeling bile rise in her throat and determined to keep it down. 

“It is finished. Welcome.” Duncan’s voice was low and heavy, and it reverberated against her throbbing head. She raised a hand to clutch the back of her skull, groaning at the knot she found there, and pushed herself into a sitting position. 

“Two more deaths,” Alistair lamented. She squinted up at him. He was shaking his head, looking down at the bodies that lay nearby with sad eyes. “In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was… horrible. I’m glad at least one of you made it through.” He turned to give her a wan smile as she stood on wobbling legs like a newborn colt, holding out her hand to steady herself. Duncan was silent, watching her with those stern black eyes that always set her teeth on edge. She tried to wet her lips. Her tongue felt dry and swollen, too big for her mouth. 

“How do you feel?” Duncan asked knowingly. She couldn’t help but feel vague annoyance at the question, with the lump on her head throbbing and the bodies of her former companions lying dead on the stones nearby. 

“Like a herd of brontos used me as a rug,” she responded cheerfully, resisting the urge to vomit on him. “You may find me more useful in this battle if you just tie my sword to my arm and chuck me into the darkspawn horde with a catapult. I'm sure I’ll hit something if I wiggle hard enough.” Her legs shook underneath her even as she spoke the words. 

Duncan rewarded her with a small smile. 

“Did you have dreams?” Alistair’s voice was soft and sounded almost far-away as he asked. “I had terrible dreams after my Joining.” 

The dragon’s gaping, screaming mouth flashed in her mind. She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself to warm her skin against the sudden chill. 

“Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do. That and many other things can be explained in the months to come.” 

Duncan’s voice was almost nonchalant, if one could ever use such a word to describe that man. A frown spread across her features. She had the intangible feeling that she had just signed a contract without seeing the fine print. The fact that Duncan so casually held information at arm’s length was beginning to irritate her. She felt as though someone had used her brain as a battering ram and he was speaking like this was routine. 

But she supposed that for the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, this was routine. The thought sobered her. Morrigan’s mother's words rang in her head once more as she finally forced herself to look down at poor Jory’s lifeless body. _“Sadly irrelevant in the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides.”_  

Alistair’s soothing tenor broke through her spiraling train of thought. “Before I forget, there’s one last part to your Joining.” 

From his hand dangled a gold pendant with a large ruby in the middle. It was a strange thing, gaudy and unfashionable, and she frowned at it. “We take some of that blood and put it in a pendant.” 

Her stomach churned at the realization as she looked at the small glass insert she had mistaken for a ruby. It seemed now to take on a threatening gleam in the moonlight. She could see the dark edge to its color, and wrinkled her nose at the thought that she could have ever seen it as anything other than it was. 

Alistair seemed to notice her distaste, for his voice grew solemn. “Something to remind us… of those who didn’t make it this far.” 

Her eyes wandered yet again to Jory and Daveth, and she felt a stab of regret. They had come here hoping for a better life, a chance at glory, and now they lay forgotten and discarded like garbage on the stones. And she, a spoiled noblewoman who had only come here with thought toward her own gain, stood healthy and alive. Her mouth went dryer than ever, and Alistair lowered the pendant into her palm. It settled heavy and cold against her skin, a grim token. 

As she slipped the heavy chain over her neck, realization set into her stomach. _“Sadly irrelevant…”_  

A Warden was no hero. A Warden was no grand knight meant to save the world and take praise and glory in the process. 

A Warden was just a stronger sword, meant to be pointed at the enemy. A tool to be used in battle, and nothing more.


	5. Beacon

Her second meeting with the king did not go much better than her first.

He was not as bound by the word of Teyrn Loghain as she had first thought. But his obsession with Grey Wardens and glory had gotten her and Alistair stuck on beacon-lighting duty. She was irascible over it. The last time she had been left out of a fight, her parents had died and her brother had gone missing. 

She dragged her feet behind Duncan as he led her back to the Warden camp, and she could see the silhouettes of Alistair and Hessarian waiting for them by the fire. Duncan was frowning, though she was unsure whether it was meant for her or King Cailan. 

Alistair’s questioning eyes met hers as they came closer to the camp, and his face fell into worry as he caught sight of her annoyance. He looked to Duncan as if for reassurance, and Olivia did not need to see the Warden-Commander’s face to know that he did not find it there. 

She stopped beside the younger man and crossed her arms over her chest. He looked down at her with searching eyes as she avoided them, and then across to Duncan, who was all business now. The older Warden surveyed them with an unknowable look on his face. 

“You and Alistair will go to the Tower of Ishal, and ensure the beacon is lit.” His tone brooked no argument, and Olivia had to resist rolling her eyes. 

Alistair bristled immediately. “What? I won’t be in the battle?” His disappointed tone echoed the one she had used upon hearing the same news. Duncan seemed to have expected his reaction, because his tone was stern when he replied. 

“This is by the king’s personal request, Alistair. If the beacon is not lit, Teyrn Loghain’s men won’t know when to charge.” Despite his words, Duncan’s eyes held a flicker of regret. 

Or perhaps Olivia had just imagined it. 

“So he needs two Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch. Just in case, right?” Alistair sounded entirely unimpressed. Olivia couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her mouth. She was acting like a petulant teenager, she knew, but she was having a hard time caring. 

“I agree with Alistair,” she added. Her words would change nothing, but for some reason she found herself needing him to know that she had not wanted this either. “We should be in the battle.” 

“That is not your choice.” 

Duncan’s voice had taken on a hard edge, and Olivia lowered her head in embarrassment. She had let herself forget that she was speaking to the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, and not her father. “If King Cailan wishes Grey Wardens to ensure the beacon is lit, then Grey Wardens will be there. We must do whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn… exciting or no.” He gave Alistair a hard look. 

The younger Warden had the sense to look genuinely apologetic, and shook his head. “I get it, I get it.” His eyes crinkled at the corners now, and the corner of his mouth tipped upward. “But just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.”

Olivia raised a suggestive eyebrow at him. “I think I’d like to see that,” she chirped cheerfully, nudging him with her shoulder with a sly smile. 

He looked down at her with surprise, and his teeth flashed in a wide grin. “For you, _maybe_. But it has to be a pretty dress.” 

Her smile grew, and his eyes were gleaming with mirth. A long, palpable moment of heat hung suspended between them. She tried fruitlessly to quell the backflips that were happening in her stomach. The moment seemed to snap when Duncan groaned in annoyance, and they both flinched as if burned by the sound. 

After a few more short instructions that amounted to “get to the tower without dying, light the signal fire,” Duncan looked at them both with that same odd flicker of regret. He stared at Alistair for a long moment, before nodding and straightening his shoulders. 

“From here, you two are on your own. Remember, you are both Grey Wardens. I expect you to be worthy of that title.” 

Olivia nodded, but Alistair looked somber. Duncan began to turn away from them. “Duncan!” The older Warden stopped, and turned to meet Alistair’s suddenly dark eyes. There was a long silence between the two that Olivia knew she could not even begin to understand. “May the Maker watch over you.”

Duncan nodded, and his brow knitted together. “May he watch over us all.”

For a long moment after Duncan’s departure, Alistair and Olivia could only stare at one another. The amusement from moments ago was long gone now, and she felt a strange urge to reach out and wipe the worried frown from between his eyes. With a heavy sigh, she looked out in the direction of the bridge that led to the Tower of Ishal. It wasn't far, and they had some time yet before the battle started. If they found just the right place on the bridge, they might be able to see some of the battle from afar.

She looked over at Hessarian. He sat as still as a statue beside her, the perfect picture of well-trained mabari obedience. She smiled and clicked her tongue, reaching her hand out to him. He responded immediately, standing at attention. His wide brown head rested against the flat of her hand and his ears pricked straight up.

She scratched at his head with a smile. “Good dog.”

She started toward the bridge. Alistair and Hessarian fell into step beside her, and she wondered at the easy understanding between the three of them. She looked back at the taller Warden and gave him hesitant smile.

“Maybe we can find a spot on the bridge where we can see the battle,” she offered kindly, and he pursed his lips in response.

“We shouldn’t _be_ watching,” he grumbled, heaving a sigh and running a hand through his hair. He shook his head in resignation. Hessarian barked cheerfully from between them.

She found a spot between a statue and a ramp where she could see the battlefield below without being in the way of the soldiers fortifying the bridge. There was a small wall bordering the ramp, and she leaned eagerly against it, hoping for a better view. She could already see some of the darkspawn approaching the fortress off in the distance, though they were hard to make out at this distance. Rain was beginning to brew above them, and she watched the archers assemble and ready their bows.

Alistair leaned beside her, so close she could feel his arm brush against hers. She hadn’t taken him for the brooding type, but he was awfully close to doing just that as he glared out at the battlefield in terse silence. She couldn’t help but smile at the sight. His guileless face was not built for sulking.

She gave him a friendly nudge with her shoulder. “Cheer up. I’m sure we’ll see some action after we light the beacon.”

He huffed. “Unless an archdemon comes and gobbles us all up.”

She couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up from her throat, and even he smiled.

“Well, one can only hope, I suppose. Though I’d rather go a little longer without seeing one, myself. My whole lifetime, if I can swing it, although I understand the odds are a lot lower as of an hour ago.” Alistair laughed again, and Hessarian barked in excitement at the sound. Despite his considerable fighting ability, her mabari was never one to miss out on a bit of fun. He leapt up between them, his enormous paws leaning on the wall and his long tongue leaving streaks of slobber across her face. Olivia made a melodramatic gagging sound in return for his affection.

For a moment, she could almost allow herself to forget where she was. To believe she was back at Highever with her mabari and her family, and not waiting for a darkspawn horde to descend upon her.

With the blast of a horn, the marching started.

She could see King Cailan and Duncan at the front. The King’s gilded armor gleaming golden and magnificent in the light of the torches around him. There were mabari lined in front of his soldiers in true Fereldan fashion.

The king’s army was enormous, and glinted like a wall of steel as it advanced with a thudding staccato to the battlefield below. The archers on the bridge readied their bows, fire pits beside them for their arrows.

It was a grim but impressive sight. 

The weather had become abysmal. Horizontal sheets of rain stinging at her face and white arcs of lightning darted across the sky above them. The wind was whipping her long black braid around her face. 

She heard another horn off in the distance. A black mass roiled toward them like a hideous sea of spikes and teeth and decay, and she felt trepidation clenching in her gut. 

The darkspawn army was coming, their grunts and marching steps echoing even above the wind. The line of them was endless as they stomped out from the rolling mists that covered the tree line of the forest. 

There were _so many_ of them. 

She looked to Alistair, and he met her gaze with his own concerned one. His eyes were dark with fear, and she swallowed hard. The King had talked of the horde as though it were small, a scouting band - not the veritable army that was marching toward them now. 

“Ready your arrows!” came the call down the line of archers. They drew back on their bows, tense and alert. 

The two armies had come to a standstill, leaving a large gap on the battlefield between them. The darkspawn mass was churning as the creatures hopped and surged with anticipation. Cailan’s army was still as a statue. Thunder rent the air in a deafening crack. A blinding flash of lightning followed close after. Neither army moved forward. They pressed down on the expansive field between them like a vibrating forcefield, ready to paint the blank canvas of it red. 

All at once, the darkspawn were charging at the King’s army, ripping towards their prey with slathering excitement. King Cailan’s voice rang clear as a bell as he signaled the archers, and arrows rained down upon the enemy like a swarm of black bees. Darkspawn fell one by one to the barrage of projectiles as it rained down upon them. Those that did not fall down dead continued their relentless onslaught unfazed. 

Then came the hounds, released from their masters and dispatched in a surge of pounding muscle and fur across the divide. The met the darkspawn without fear. Even when they fell, the great beasts took hurlocks and genlocks down with them in their vicelike jaws. Olivia hid her face in her shoulder as the hounds whimpered and fell, one by one. She reached out to touch Hessarian’s cold nose with her hand for reassurance that he was safe. 

The battlefield surged now as the king’s troops rushed the darkspawn mass. They collided with a deafening ring of metal that echoed across the battlefield. 

The two Wardens’ eyes met once more, and they nodded, resolute. With the battle started, it was time to head towards the Tower. Olivia took the lead, swinging her wet braid over her shoulder and whistling for Hessarian to follow. The song of arrows flying over her head as her boots pounded over the bridge gave her pause, but they could not afford to falter. 

“Olivia, _move_!” 

The wind was howling in her ears and her hair was pulling out of her braid to whip her face. But even with the torrent of noise around her, she heard Alistair’s warning ring clear and urgent from behind her. She turned to look at him, only to find him charging toward her, head low to avoid the arrows sailing above. She had only a second to process what was happening before he barreled into her at full force. His arm closed around her smaller frame to take her down as he clutched her against him. 

There was an explosion of stone seconds later, and she felt a rush of force knock the air from her lungs as the impact blasted them backward. Alistair gave a grunt of pain as they landed, and had somehow managed to maneuver himself behind her so he could break her fall. 

Olivia gasped for air, and Alistair untangled himself from the awkward heap of limbs they had landed in. He sat up beside her, holding a hand to his head where a wayward stone had created bleeding gash. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voiced strained, and she could only groan in response. 

She sat up with a wince, and could see the spot where she had been standing was now a crumbling hole. The archer that had been stationed there was nowhere to in sight. Her brow furrowed in confusion. 

“Trebuchets,” Alistair explained. His voice was hoarse and breathless. She could only stare at him in response, dumbfounded. Where had a horde of darkspawn found trebuchets?

When she caught her breath, she whipped her head around, frantic. “Wh…Where’s Hessarian?” She tried to whistle, but only air came out. She heard him bark somewhere behind her in response, and knew he had managed to get himself out of the way far sooner than they had. Her shoulders sagged in relief. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog from her mind and focus on their mission. 

“Here.” Alistair’s voice was quiet, and he was standing in front of her, favoring his left leg and holding out a large hand. She reached for him, but was still a bit dizzy and had to let him do most of the work as he pulled her to her feet. She stumbled on the way up, and he caught her against his broad chest. He supported her weight against him as he pulled them both from the bridge in a slow limp. 

“Are you all right?” she asked him, her voice almost inaudible over the wind, looking up at his wincing face. He gritted his teeth in pain, but shrugged. 

“Landed wrong. It’s still usable. I think I just need to walk it off. We need to get to the beacon. The King needs Loghain to charge.” 

She nodded and pushed against him into a standing position, and his hands were gentle on her shoulders as he steadied her. She tried not to think about how warm she had been against him, and how cold she now was with the rain buffeting her. Instead, she put every ounce of focus she had left into staying on both feet. 

The Tower of Ishal was close now, and she could see Hessarian standing guard at the end of the bridge, his haunches up and his ears alert. She looked to Alistair, who still looked rather in pain, but he gave her an affirmative nod, and they took off toward the tower at a run. 

* * *

The Tower of Ishal had been completely overrun by darkspawn, because _of course it was_. But even that wouldn’t have been so bad if she weren’t standing face to face with a bloody ogre. It was swaying along the top floor of the tower, its steps sending tremors through the stone that vibrated into Olivia’s bones. Its head lolled on its shoulders as it turned, and when its eyes found hers, it let out a screeching roar that pulsed painfully in her ears. 

Her feet didn’t seem to want to move, and she tried to push down the lance of pure terror that sliced through her core. She glanced at Alistair for guidance, only to find him staring at the creature with his face pulled tight in exasperation. The Circle Mage behind them yelped in fear. 

But her brave hound held no such reservations, and Hessarian bounded toward the creature with a vicious howl. Alistair met her gaze. They nodded in unison with grim acceptance before charging at the enormous creature with a loud cry, weapons raised.

Alistair touched her back with his hand, much as he had done out in the Wilds, before slipping ahead of her. His stance defensive and his shield lodged against his shoulder, and he crashed into the ogre with the full weight of his body. She gave a short laugh of surprise when the great beast actually swayed at the force of it. She dropped her feet from underneath her as she came upon it, sliding feet first between its trunk-like legs. Her dagger sliced at its large thigh as she passed through, and she felt a rush of satisfaction at its furious roar. With a well-timed bend of her knees, she came back up land on her feet with the closest thing to grace she could muster. 

The cool numbness of adrenaline was pumping through her limbs now, dulling her fear in its wake. She strafed around the ogre, slashing at any opening she could find before spinning away at the last minute as it lashed out at her. She was about to lunge at the creature again when an enormous fireball passed in front of her face, inches from her nose. She fell backwards on her rear trying to avoid it, her weapons clattering to the stone as she lost her grip. The fireball careened past her and exploded against a crumbling wall across the tower - nowhere near its intended target. 

“Sorry! Sorry!” The mage’s voice sounded harried as he called out to her, and she glared at him with restrained fury. He was skittering toward her, his arm reached out as if to help her up, but she held up a hand and waved him off. She slammed her fist against the stones as she jumped back to her feet, sweeping up her weapons once more. 

“The darkspawn is _that_ way!” she snarled. 

Hessarian was swinging from the ogre's arm with his jaw locked into its flesh. Its other arm jackhammered down on Alistair’s back, knocking him to the ground in a heap of clanging metal. Olivia jabbed her finger at the bellowing darkspawn to direct the mage. He fanned out to the creature's side, while she started toward where Alistair was pushing himself to his elbows with a groan. The mage fired off another fireball at her signal, and this time it hit the ogre square in the face, causing it to stumble back away from them. It gave Olivia the opening she needed to vault over Alistair’s hunched form and crash her boot down into the ogre’s kneecap. Hessarian released its arm from his jaws and circled around to charge into the back of the ogre’s legs. It toppled over the mabari with an enraged shout, landing with a crash on its back and causing the room to reverberate with the sound. 

“That was a hell of a hit!” Olivia turned back to Alistair, offering her hand with a smile. His fingers clasped around her forearm, and she hauled him to his feet. He was looking a bit woozy, and she kept a hand on his shoulder to steady him as he swayed on the spot. 

“That’s one way of putting it,” he groaned in response, gingerly stretching out his back. “Do I look shorter to you? Because I’m pretty sure part of my spine is now in my leg.”

Despite his words, he was standing straight now, a weak smile tugging at his lips. She grinned despite herself. If not even an ogre could beat the cheek out of him, she could only imagine the time the Chantry mothers must have had. Olivia admired the tenacity. 

There was a shout behind her, and she felt a crushing weight around her middle as the air whooshed from her lungs. She rose with a nauseating jolt into the air, enormous fingers crushing her ribs. She saw Alistair’s eyes widening in horror, and then the room blurred and spun. She presumed from the way it was shaking her like a ragdoll that the ogre was back up, and very annoyed with her. She was sure it must have crushed her ribs into dust, because she could barely expand her lungs enough to take in a single breath. Her vision was blackening at the edges. It had pinned her hands to her sides in its grip, and she could not wheedle them out while it thrust her through the air. 

She the explosion that went off behind her sounded muffled in her ears. The ogre pivoted to peer in the direction from which it had originated, and she felt another surge of nausea at the motion. At the same moment, Alistair thrust his sword into the ogre’s forearm. It sliced through muscle and tendon in a splash of dark blood. 

The ogre screamed in fury, swinging its free arm toward Alistair. He only twisted his blade in deeper, and through the haze of pain Olivia could see the dangerous glint in his eyes. He ducked out of the way of the grey hand that swiped down at him, but his first did not move from its iron grip on the hilt of his sword. 

Another fireball blasted toward them, and this time it exploded in a shower of sparks just below Olivia’s feet. That seemed to do the trick. The ogre released her from its grip in alarm, stumbling toward the source of the fireball. Alistair abandoned his weapon in the ogre's arm to wrap an arm around her waist before she landed on the stone below. 

He settled her carefully to her feet, but did not release his grip even after she had both feet planted flat on the floor. Without the ogre’s crushing fist around her lungs, air was coming easier to her now, and she felt dizzy as she drank it in with gasping gulps. 

“Anything broken?” Alistair was not looking at her as he spoke. His stance was alert and defensive as he held his shield aloft and watched the ogre stomp at the mabari weaving through its feet. 

“N-no.” Though she still gasped for air, she was feeling sturdier now, and pulled herself from his grip. “Thanks.” Somehow, her swords were still clutched in her hands. And though she was sure she would have some nasty bruising later, she was almost certain she had escaped without any broken ribs. Alistair stepped away from her, giving her a reaffirming nod before storming back into the fray. 

“Perhaps we should start actually trying to kill this thing!” he called out to her as she circled around to the opposite side of the ogre, avoiding a flying fist as she did so by the skin of her teeth. Despite the humor in his words, she could tell he was beginning to tire, and she was faring even worse. She knew that if they didn’t figure out a way to take the Blighted creature down soon, it would be their end. She nodded, giving him her best attempt at a grin.

The mage was hurtling an endless stream of magic bolts toward the hulking beast, and it gave her time to strafe around it and think. She could see red welts where the magic was having its effect. There were also several deep bite marks along its limbs from Hessarian, and large gashes in its abdomen from Alistair. It had wounds all over its body, and yet it barely seemed to have tired at all. It was only now she noticed that though it had armor on its limbs and shoulders, its neck and head were bare, save for the enormous horns. It was too tall for its enemies to reach those points, and she suspected that was precisely where its weak points lie. 

She returned to Alistair, hunching just behind his shield for protection. She angled herself near his ear so that she could speak to him without the enormous darkspawn overhearing. “Raise your shield and don’t move.” 

He looked at her with a perplexed frown, and she lifted an almost imperceptible brow. When he gave her an affirmative nod, she reached out a hand to angle his shield slightly upwards. Then she grinned, turned on her heel, and marched away from him. 

When she reached the wall at the other end of the tower, she took a deep breath. She sent up a quick prayer to the Maker or the Creators or whoever that this would work. And that she wouldn’t end up a red splatter under the ogre’s foot. 

Lowering her head, she charged toward the beast, keeping Alistair just diagonal of her trajectory. When she came within close enough distance, she leaped, and her feet landed just right against his shield. He seemed to have caught on to her plan, for he shoved it upwards as soon as her feet touched the metal. Olivia twisted herself in the air, holding her weapons at a downward angle as she fell toward the ogre’s roaring face. The sword landed true, stabbing deep into the creature’s fleshy neck and meeting no resistance. She felt its blood splash across her face. She used her sword as a grappling point as it fell backward, angling her boots against its enormous chest to soften the impact. 

The ogre gave a desperate roar as it hit the ground. Its saliva sprayed at her even as its blood did, and she blanched at the smell of death and rot on its breath. Its arms rose above her in an attempt to swat her away. Grinning victoriously, she roared back at it as loud as she could, fearless now in the face of its death throes. With a last, triumphant “Ha!,” she stabbed her dagger through its bellowing maw. The enormous arms went limp and fell to the floor with a resounding thump. Olivia yanked her blades from its flesh, leaping away from its lifeless body.

Hessarian bounded around her, and Olivia swiped at her face with her forearm. She wrinkled her nose, suspecting that she had only moved the blood around instead of removing any of it. 

The sudden silence in the tower chamber seemed to ring in her ears. With the monstrous creature dead, her adrenaline rush was dying down, a piercing pain in her ribs taking its place. Olivia winced and touched her hand to her side, imagining the array of colors that she might find there later. Not far from her, the Circle Mage collapsed to the floor with a huff of expelled air, looking rather dazed. Alistair had yanked his sword from the ogre’s arm and was wiping it down with a cloth. 

Olivia looked down at her own blades, which were dripping with blood and – was that brain matter? She frowned and looked away from it, trying not to think about what must be on her face and armor. 

The ring of Alistair’s sword sliding into its sheath echoed loud throughout the room. She looked up to find him shaking his head at the mage on the floor. “The beacon is over here. We’ve surely missed the signal. Let’s light it quickly before it’s too late.” 

The beacon brazier was enormous and full of fresh kindling waiting to be lit, and it was blessedly easy to send it up in a magnificent blaze. A comforting sense of accomplishment buzzed through her limbs. - though it was more likely that was just her nerves trembling in exhaustion. It was taking all her energy just to keep her knees from collapsing underneath her. 

Her hand found a nearby wall and she slumped against it, now acutely aware of the various pains sprouting up around her body. Hessarian sat regally at her side, and she was thankful to see that he had nary a scratch on him. 

The only thing left to do was wait for Duncan to send for them, and it was rather anti-climactic. The brazier beside her was roaring with life, but it was the only sound in the room. Alistair and the Circle mage offered no words to fill the silence. The mage was straightening his robes and looking at the ogre in distaste. Alistair reclined against the wall beside her, his elbows resting on his knees and his eyes closed. He looked as exhausted as she felt. 

The first chuckle that escaped her caught her by surprise, and Alistair glanced over at her with a furrowed brow. His confusion only fueled another laugh. She quickly dissolved into uncontrollable snickering, her chin tucked into her chest and shoulders shaking. Alistair shook his head, bemused. 

“Did you take a blow to the head?” 

A groan abruptly interrupted her laughter when she jostled her ribs in just the wrong way, and she shook her head. She clutched a hand to her side and leaned her head back against the stone wall with a soft exhalation of air. 

“I can’t believe I stabbed an ogre in the face.” 

It was Alistair’s turn to chuckle. “I can’t believe you roared at it.” 

“Pff! How about that jump! Maker, what was I thinking? What if I landed wrong and fell on my face? _Embarrassing_. I'm lucky you have a strong grip." 

"It was pretty impressive though." She looked at him through the side of her eyes. He was grinning at her, his eyebrow raised sharply. “I think we work well together.” 

Another Maker-cursed blush spread from her face to the tips of her ears. She was starting to get annoyed with how easily she seemed to do that around him. If Fergus could see her face this red he would tease her until she clocked him. She found comfort, however, in the fact that Alistair was sporting an even more vivid blush than she.

And he was right. In the few battles they had fought together, they had adopted a quick camaraderie that showed in every step. He was a defender, able to take blows from the front and lead the enemy's eye. She was scrappy and quick on her feet. She had found herself on more than one occasion slipping in behind his broad defensive stances and stabbing enemies in the back before they could even see her coming. 

She hadn't even known him a full day yet, but she felt as if they had been fighting together for years. 

She almost groaned aloud at how silly the thought was. It sounded like a line from one of Aldous's fanciful fairytales. If they were back at Highever, if he were one of her father's guards, she would have taken him for a tumble in the stables by now and called it done. Perhaps she still could. 

But a glance back at his reddened cheeks and boyish grin started a ball of fluttering warmth growing in her stomach. She knew then that, here or at Highever, he was not the sort of person one could use and forget about. And she was far too intrigued by this easy friendship to think about ruining it the way she had ruined so many other things in the past. 

After a long moment of weighty silence, she pulled her eyes away from his. She turned her head away and found reprieve in the familiarity of Hessarian's broad, carefree smile. The hound butted her with his head affectionately. With a chuckle and a fond pat on his snout, she laid her head against the thick haunch of his shoulder and slumped in fatigue, allowing herself a brief moment to rest her eyes. She thought vaguely how strange it was to find her first moment of real peace in a full day while darkspawn blood covered her from head to toe. 

She was just beginning to feel the light buzz of sleep when she heard the door of the tower explode open in a deafening bang. 

The four of them leapt to their feet in shock. Darkspawn poured through the door in a cacophanous surge, and she felt horror explode in her chest at the sight. 

" _No_! How is this possible?" Alistair's voice sounded as dismayed as she felt. 

Olivia didn't even have time to draw her weapons before the first arrow thudded into her shoulder. Red-hot pain bloomed across her vision. The second one followed shortly after, lodging itself in-between her ribs, and the force of them knocked her to the ground. She could hear Hessarian howling in fury, could feel an explosion of heat somewhere to her left. But a fuzzy blackness was creeping at the edge of her vision, and the blood that pumped in her ears was drowning out all other noise. Her arm felt like pudding when she lifted it to touch the arrow in her shoulder. She could vaguely hear Alistair's voice shouting at her through the roaring in her ears. 

"Just hang on! Do _not_ close your eyes, do you hear me?"

She knew she should obey him, but the force pulling on her eyelids was too strong to resist. The last thing she saw before the darkness enveloped her was the blazing light of the beacon burning behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UST, UST for EVERYONE! I'm really kinda in love with this chapter, mostly because I am having a blast building the partnership between these nerds and also because Olivia is a giant trash baby who does not understand how crushes work. Can this be tagged as fluff? Cause I feel like it's about as close as you can get when an ogre is punching you in the face.
> 
> Also, if anyone's interested, I recreated Olivia using Inquisition and then took a terrible iPhone photo of her. [You can find it here](http://grrowlithe.tumblr.com/post/122739878094/i-made-my-warden-in-inquisition-and-im-literally), which coincidentally is also my Tumblr.


	6. Alone

_“Heruamin oh lonai  
_ _Imwe naine beriole...”_

Soft, and kind... the song was drifting through the warm air so gently, like a downy bird fluttering around her head.

Who was singing? 

The voice was velvety and sad, and sounded so far off she almost could not make out the words.

_“Ame amin_  
_Halai lothi amin  
_ _Aloamin Heruamin...”_

There was a long pause, and the crackle of a fire tickled at her ears. She was smiling, she could not help it. A blanket of fuzzy warmth enveloped her and she felt safe. She felt...

“Rest, my darling.”

Home.

Her mother was sitting at the end of her bed, her embroidery needle sinking into fabric like a sword into flesh... no. Like a hand into water. An arm through silk sleeves.

Her mother smiled and continued to sing, soft and low. 

                     _“Ame amin_  
_Halai lothi amin  
__Noamin...”_  

There was a tingle on her cheek, and she lifted a hand to touch her fingers so gently to the single tear that rested there. She stared at the wetness on her hands in confusion. Why did she feel so unbearably _sad_? 

She could smell the sweet blossom of her mother’s perfume, crystal grace and embrium. Her heart swelled. 

“ _Ame amin_  
_Halai lothi amin_ -  
You must wake now, my dearest. There is much to do.” 

Her mother’s skin was silk against her hand, but her grip in her palm felt firm. 

She shook her head. 

“I love you so much. My brave girl.” 

Her mother’s voice was drifting away from her, and her brow furrowed slightly. That presence on her hand had been so real just moments ago. Where had it gone?

The song was far away now, incomprehensible, falling further with every syllable. She reached, searching, desperate to feel that touch once more. 

 _“Noamin Heruamin.”_  

Her eyes opened slowly, then all at once, and her surroundings were unfamiliar. 

The smile that lingered on her face faded as hard reality pushed out the warmth her dream had left behind. She closed her eyes against the tide of sharp sorrow that swept over her. It was only now, feeling that sorrow settle over her heart like an iron cage and knowing she’d had even such a brief reprieve from it, that she realized it had been there all along. She lifted a hand to swipe at the fat tear rolling down her face and toward her hair. 

“Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased.” 

She flinched in surprise at the voice, and pulled herself gingerly into a sitting position to get a better look at the other occupant of the room. A familiar pair of piercing yellow eyes met her inquisitive gaze. 

“I... remember you: the girl from the Wilds.” Olivia’s voice was hoarse, and her throat scratched painfully as she spoke. 

The other woman’s stance was stiff and formal, and she seemed to have adopted a hesitant policy of distrust. “I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten. And we are in the Wilds, where I am bandaging your wounds.” 

Olivia looked down at the bare expanse of her body curiously. She was in her smalls, and despite Morrigan’s words there was not a bandage in sight. She could see large, angry welts on her side and her shoulder where the arrows had pierced. Where her ribs should have been a deep bronze, they were instead a mottled mosaic of blue and yellow. This must be her token from the ogre. Lovely. 

“You are welcome, by the way.” Morrigan’s pointed remark cut through her thorough inspection, and she looked back to the witch. She was standing rather sullenly near the bed, her arms crossed, and her eyes were wary, though not cold. “How does your memory fare? Do you remember Mother’s rescue?” 

Frowning now, Olivia pulled her knees up to her chest, shivering despite the oppressive heat of the small hut. “I remember being overwhelmed by darkspawn,” she replied, quiet. 

“Mother managed to save you and your friend, though ’twas a close call. What is important is that you both live.” Olivia felt her pulse quicken at the word "friend," but she did not let it show in her face. When Morrigan spoke again, her voice was oddly gentle - if such a word could apply to her. “The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred.” 

A thundrous roar swelled in her ears, and her body went slack in shock. _Massacred_? _All_ of them? Loghain had ignored the beacon. Duncan, the king, the Wardens - all of them, dead? 

“Your friend... he is not taking it well.” 

There was that word again. Friend. 

She looked back to Morrigan, swallowing the enormous lump in her throat with great difficulty. “My friend? You... mean Alistair?” Her voice wobbled on the syllables of his name. 

Morrigan waved a dismissive hand. “The suspicious, dimwitted one who was with you before, yes. He is outside, by the fire.” 

At her words, Olivia practically leapt out of the bed. She found the her armor in a neat pile by the bed and hastily pulled on layer by layer of her clothing. “I have to go speak to him.” 

Morrigan’s voice was high in protest, in order to be heard against the flurry of Olivia’s sudden determination. “Mother asked to see you when you awoke.”

Her fingers were shaking so bad that she had to slow herself to a crawl to manage the buckles and belts of her armor. Her mother’s words from her dream echoed in her ears. “ _There is much to do_.” Her finger slipped on a buckle, and the prong stabbed her thumb. She hissed in pain. 

If Duncan was gone - Maker, if the _king_ was gone - and the darkspawn had been successful, what was she supposed to do now? Two Wardens left in all of Ferelden, and a Blight on the horizon... She felt a stab of despair, followed by sheer terror, and she looked backed to Morrigan. 

“Are there _any_ survivors, besides us?” She tried to quell the desperation in her voice, to no avail. The mage shook her head. 

“Only stragglers that are long gone. You would not want to see what is happening in that valley now.” 

Her voice was almost inaudible when she responded. “Tell me.” 

Morrigan seemed a bit taken aback. “Are you sure you want me to describe it?” she asked hesitantly. 

Swallowing with difficulty, Olivia nodded, meeting the other woman’s gaze. “Yes... please.” 

“I had a good view of the battlefield. ’Tis a grisly scene. There are bodies everywhere and darkspawn swarm them... feeding, I think. They also look for surivivors and drag them back down beneath the ground. I... cannot say why.” 

She squeezed her eyes shut, horror roiling in her belly. With a shaking hand, she scrubbed her face, and for just a moment she allowed the swell of hopelessness to overtake her. Her family, her brother, her order and her king. There was nothing left. She belonged to nobody, and she felt like an untethered boat in a tempest. 

When the moment passed, she pushed the hopelessness away. If she gave it any more than that, it would sweep her under. She took a deep breath, and looked to Morrigan one more time, fastening her sword and dagger firmly into the clasps on her back. “Thank you for helping me, Morrigan.” Her voice sounded surprisingly firm, and she hoped her face was even half as much so. 

The mage blanched at her gratitude. “I... you are welcome, though Mother did most of the work. I am no healer.” 

Olivia nodded, and swung the door open. Her eyes squinted as they met the harsh blast of daylight. Yet even through her slatted lids she could tell they deep in the marshes of the Wilds. 

When her eyes adjusted to the light, she found Alistair standing before her, at the edge of the waters of the swamp. He was staring out at the landscape beyond and standing as still as a statue. Near him was Flemeth, looking unconcerned, her arms crossed casually over her chest. Her voice was cutting when she spoke. 

“See? Here is your fellow Grey Warden.” Alistair whipped around to look at her, and the eyes that found her were red and swollen. “You worry too much, young man.” 

His face, so open and easy to read, was so full of anguish that Olivia’s heart clenched at the sight. His shoulders, which had been straight and proud when she’d met him, were now hunched inward. Silence weighed heavy between them as they stared at one another, and sorrow seemed to press down on the air. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was raw and hoarse. “You... you’re alive. I... thought you were dead for sure.” 

She gave him her best attempt at a smile, feeling it wobble even as she did. “I’m fine.” This moment felt so fragile, so easily broken by a word spoken too harsh or too loud. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, as though anything more would destroy the last semblance of composure they had. “I’m glad you’re all right.” 

He swallowed hard, and she could see his Adam’s apple bob with the motion. The planes of his face were stretched tight, and he looked like he was on the verge of collapse. Olivia looked to Flemeth. 

“Can you... give us a moment?” 

The woman looked annoyed at the request, but she nodded even so. “Very well. But a moment is all you have.” With a last piercing gaze, she retreated to her hut. 

She strode tentatively to fill the space beside him on the bank of the marsh, never meeting his gaze. She simply hugged her arms over her chest and gazed out at the scenery in silence. After a moment of deliberation, he turned his own gaze in the same direction. 

There was something oddly peaceful about this place, where the wind danced along the reeds and the sun glinted off the pools of water before her. In another time, without darkspawn and death and tragedy marring its history, she may have even found it beautiful. 

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m... so sorry.” 

He was close enough that she could feel his shuddering intake of breath. “This doesn’t feel real.” His words were a whisper, a quiet plea to someone higher than she. She was familiar with his disbelief. With the solid, raking ache for any sign that this moment was not real. The desperate desire to go back to the moment when everything went wrong and do something, _anything_ different. 

She had felt so alone, for weeks, unrelenting. She had woken in the night choking with the terror of her solitude, and found no reprieve. She had been desperate to find Fergus because she needed someone, anyone who could understand. Who could drive away the weight of how terrifying it was to have nobody. Perhaps that was selfish of her. But the knowledge of a world that stretched endless and wide, with not a single person in it who she could call her own - it was the worst feeling she had ever experienced. 

And now here they were, the last. The last of the Wardens, the last of the Couslands, the last possible defense against the Blight - and she only felt more sorrow. She knew the sucking blackness of being alone, and she would never have wished it upon another. Especially not like this. Especially not someone like Alistair. 

And underneath it all, she felt more alone than ever before. 

They stood in companionable silence for what felt like hours, just staring. When Flemeth returned from her hut, Alistair’s eyes were dry, and his shoulders had straightened once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels more like an interlude than a chapter, but I wanted to give the loss of the Wardens the gravity it deserved. Or at least attempt to. I made myself sad, regardless.


	7. Shipwrecked

The heavy silence that had settled over her and Alistair shattered with the sharp snap of the door behind them. He seemed to have found a sense of calm somewhere within the shroud of quiet contemplation they shared, and his face was less stricken as he looked at her now. Olivia wished she had found the same strength as he. Instead, the silence had crushed down on her, pressing air out of her lungs one breath at a time until she was feeling rather light-headed. The magnitude of their loss hung in the air like rot.

She felt like a creaky old rowboat that had slipped its tether and was now drifting out into a windswept sea.

“You’ve had your moment, but the time for mourning has passed.” The old witch was stoic and imposing as she exited her hut, and the two Wardens straightened at the sight of her. For the first time, Olivia noticed the odd ethereal grace Morrigan’s mother possessed, despite her shoddy appearance. She had always gotten the feeling that the woman was not as lowly as she presented herself, but it was only now that she began to feel that she was even more powerful and unknowable than Olivia could possibly imagine. “You must decide now what your next step will be.” 

Alistair’s brow wrinkled. His voice, soft and dry, was as full of despair as it had been before. “Duncan’s dead. The Grey Wardens, even the king… they're all dead. If it weren’t for Morrigan’s mother, we’d be dead too.”

“Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad.”

“I-I didn’t mean... but - but what do we call you? You never told us your name...”

“Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do.”

Olivia’s head snapped to meet the old woman’s piercing yellow gaze. She had only barely been listening. Her mind was so overwhelmed as it tried to assess her situation, but now as she gazed at the woman she felt fully alert.

“ _The_ Flemeth, from the legends?” Alistair looked stunned for a moment, and then his face sagged with exhaustion. He rubbed his face with one large hand. “Daveth was right - you’re the Witch of the Wilds, aren’t you?”

“And what does that mean? I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?”

Though Flemeth was speaking to Alistair, her gaze was on Olivia, who was surveying her like a silent, cautious animal. Her mind was a speeding loom, weaving brightly colored threads into tangles and leaving her unable to make out the pattern left behind.

“If you’re Flemeth, you must be very old and powerful,” Olivia said finally, her words careful and heavy with implication. The woman who could destroy the lives of prideful men on command. She was well familiar with the legend of Flemeth. As a girl, she had begged Aldous to tell her the tale until she had just about memorized it, so entranced had she been with the idea of such a woman. As she had grown, she simply accepted the tale as fancy, a story meant to inspire fear in the hearts of men and nothing more. The idea that this, here in front of her, could be the woman of the impossible tales sent a breath of excitement across her skin.

“Must I? Age and power are relative - it depends on who is asking. Compared to you, yes, on both counts.”

It was all the answer she needed. Tales of Flemeth spanned over centuries, a permanent figure in an ever-changing world. Many times, she was central to that change. Despite her tattered clothes and ratty hair, Flemeth held herself nobly. Her eyes were full of the assurance of a woman who had no predators.

Alistair’s voice interrupted her thoughtful reverie. “Then why didn’t you save Duncan? He is… he was our leader.” The sorrow had returned to his face. In his expressive eyes, she found a bitterness she would not have been able to imagine on his face before that moment. Flemeth’s gaze turned steely, though not unkind.

“I am sorry for your Duncan, but your grief must come later… in the dark shadows before you take vengeance, as my mother once said. Duty must come now.”

Olivia looked to Flemeth through the side of her eyes and finally found the courage to ask the question that had been burning at the back of her mind.

“So why _did_ you save us?” Flemeth’s golden gaze landed on hers, sharp and dissecting. “I mean, we’re just two young Warden recruits who were easily overwhelmed.”

A grin, nonchalant as though she had asked about her favorite pie, spread across the woman’s face. “Well, we cannot have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we? Someone has to deal with these darkspawn.” Olivia wondered, not for the first time, just how much the Witch was not telling them. “It has always been the Grey Wardens' duty to unite the lands against the Blight. Or did that change when I wasn’t looking?”

Olivia bristled in annoyance. She glared at the woman, arms folding across her chest and fingers flexing against them. “It changed when most of them were slaughtered,” she snapped. She could feel the anger that had simmered in her for the past few weeks rolling to a boil in her gut, and gave only a halfhearted attempt to suppress it. She wondered what the Witch would do to her if she stopped playing her game. She wondered how far her usefulness would extend.

But Flemeth did not react. She merely crossed her own arms in a mimicking gesture and gave a thin-lipped smile, though her stare was icy. “If you think small numbers make you helpless, you are already defeated.” 

“We’re two fledgling Wardens with almost no training! That isn’t ‘small numbers,’ that’s a funeral procession!” She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, searching for some kind of foothold on reason. “The land is hardly united, thanks to Loghain.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Alistair growled. “ _Why_ would he do it?”

Flemeth smiled, and she looked rather predatory. “Now that is a good question. Men’s hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat.” 

Alistair’s face darkened. “The archdemon.” 

Desperation had been quietly winding its way through her since she had stepped out of Flemeth’s hut, and now it had built into a small frenzy. Her hands shook as she scrubbed her face, and her voice came out a faint warble that infuriated her. 

“Alistair is the real Warden here - not me.” 

His face snapped to hers, but she avoided his eyes. 

All at once he seemed to crumple into desperate fear. “All the Grey Wardens in Ferelden are gone except for us. I’ve lost everyone!” His voice broke on the last syllable. His Adam’s apple dipped low in his throat and she could see in the way his face had tightened that his composure was faring no better than hers. His next words were so soft and sad that she almost didn’t catch them. “For the love of the Maker, don’t back out on me now.” 

Their eyes clicked together as if magnetized, and for one long moment she could not breathe. 

“I can’t do this on my own. We have to do something.” 

His eyes gleamed with a wild desperation that sparked a hot flash of guilt in her chest. But those eyes, those stupidly earnest eyes that seemed to shine like drizzled honey in just the right light - _not_ that she had been paying attention - 

She had never seen a grown man look so much like a kicked puppy. It was easy to forget in that moment that she had seen this same man slice a hurlock clean in half with one arm. 

With a frown, she diverted her gaze from his and down to her hands, unwilling to look at the sadness in his face any longer. She busied herself by scratching at a bit of dried blood on the back of her glove when her gaze landed on his fingers. He was clutching a small, formless object in his hands, his thumb tracing a circular pattern over the glassy surface of it. It looked to be some sort of stone, but she could not make out more than that. 

Despite his background as a trained swordsman, his fingers were long and gentle. She remembered how soft they had been against her own when he had helped her recover from her flashback in the Wilds. They had barely spoken more than a few words to each other, then, and yet he had not hesitated in helping her. And he had known all along that he might have to watch her die that night despite his efforts. 

Olivia raised her head to meet his eyes, and she felt a part of her resolve, if only a small one, harden. 

“Then we need to find this archdemon.” 

* * *

It was decided that they would go first to Redcliffe, to speak to Arl Eamon Guerrin about raising an army against Teyrn Loghain. Alistair began to perk up, even becoming excited as they spoke of the Grey Warden treaties. With only some small nudging from Flemeth, they finally had a plan. Olivia was still sure she was going mad and this was all a dream, but Alistair’s hopeful enthusiasm was infectious. 

Flemeth had also given them another "gift": Morrigan. The Witch had insisted they take her daughter along with them, both as repayment to her for saving their lives and as extra assistance on their monumental task. And yet only Flemeth seemed to actually be happy with the arrangement. Alistair seemed nervous about traveling with an apostate. Olivia did not trust the woman with the secretive smile. Morrigan seemed generally belligerent about the entirety of the idea, but acquiesced with a heavy sigh and disappeared into the hut to collect her things.

It was when she emerged again that Olivia heard the raucous barking from somewhere behind the hut. She felt her heart bound at the sound of it. Only moments later, a blur of brown fur came speeding toward her. She hardly had time to open her arms before she was tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and a long wet tongue. 

“Hessarian!” She wasn’t sure if the sound that escaped her mouth was a laugh or a sob, but her heart felt as though it had swelled three sizes. His stubby tail was wiggling so fast it was just a blur, and he was crushing her under his enormous weight. She didn’t care. She had noticed his absence, of course. But she hadn’t allowed herself to pay any heed to the sorrow that had threatened to crush her at the thought of losing her last surviving family member. There had not been time to mourn. 

She wrapped her arms around him in a crushing embrace and buried her face into the warmth of his chest. She could feel tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. As if knowing this, he stilled under her embrace, resting his head gently against her back. He gave a small, satisfied huff of air, and she knew that he had missed her too. 

She heard Alistair’s voice from somewhere above them. “He just about managed to take down the darkspawn at the tower singlehandedly after you fell. Remind me to stay on his good side.”

She grinned at her mabari, who grinned proudly back. “Did you? I bet you had those darkspawn running scared, didn’t you?” His joyful bark as he bounded around her elicited an adoring laugh. “Who’s my big scary darkspawn killer?” 

Newly reunited with her best friend, and with some fresh supplies from Morrigan filling their packs, they set out for Lothering. It was a small village to the north near the center of Ferelden. With the darkspawn horde still taking its fill at Ostagar, it was not as difficult to sneak past them as she had initially feared, especially with the help of the strange-smelling herbal concoction Morrigan had brought for that purpose. She had instructed a scowling Alistair to slather a generous amount on his skin. When he had argued, she stated in a tone that brooked no argument that it was their best hope of distracting the darkspawn from sensing him as they passed. 

Yet for all the ease of skirting the horde, their passage through the Korcari Wilds was arduous. The swampy terrain did not make for an easy hike. Water filled her boots and soaked her feet, and pulled at her legs with every step she took. Alistair did not seem to fare much better than she, and the leg he had injured at Ostagar was moving slower than his other. 

Hessarian, for his part, seemed to be having a grand time as he bounded through the water and pounced on fish, waiting for them to progress. 

They were completely silent except for the occasional shout of warning or instruction. Morrigan had developed a perpetual crinkle of distaste in her nose. Whether it was directed at them, or the swamp, or the fact that she had been unloaded onto strangers, Olivia could not tell. She navigated the swamps with a strange ease, carefully picking her steps and never once needing her staff for balance. Olivia couldn’t help but wonder why she didn’t turn into a crow and fly ahead, if only because that’s what she herself so desperately wished she could do. 

Alistair hadn’t spoken a word since they had departed from Flemeth’s hut. It did not take long for her to miss the easy companionship and playful banter they’d had before their fall at the Tower. But he maintained a contemplative silence instead. The hope that had begun to creep into his face earlier had slipped away into the bog, and Olivia was uneasy in the presence of the grim, dutiful mask that had replaced it. 

She knew wasn’t much better. She felt detached from her own body after the whirlwind of their rescue and the outset of their subsequent journey. She had joined the Grey Wardens out of grief-stricken necessity, and now she was one of two remaining members. They were tasked with an impossible goal, and even now she was not sure she could complete it. 

And still, buried deep below her fear, still she held on to the tiniest shred of hope that somewhere out here in the Wilds as she trudged toward Lothering, she would stumble upon her brother. She knew it was beyond foolish. She knew in the back of her mind that it was far more likely he had perished by now. But still she found herself scanning the trees and the waterline for any sign of a body, a sword - anything that could lead her to Fergus. 

Even if all she found was his corpse, it would be better than not knowing. 

When the sun had passed the apex of the sky and began to cut a lazy path toward the horizon, the swampland turned into the solid grass of the Hinterlands. She began to see trees sprout up around them and hear the bustle of wildlife. The terrain would inevitably turn to steeper hills and cliffs, but she was glad to be able to put the wet and the quiet of the Wilds behind her. 

Olivia was beginning to feel the wounds she had obtained at the Tower of Ishal pulsing painfully at every step. Her ribs began to ache with the weight of her pack, and underneath them her lungs heaved with the strain of finding each breath. Although she had hunted with her father and brother many times back at Highever, she had never had to hike through varied terrains as they were doing now. She felt her lack of experience in every step, as her muscles quailed with exertion. 

When they were well into the Hinterlands, she felt her legs begin to shake beneath her and knew she could not walk another step. With a careless finality, she dropped her pack to the ground and collapsed onto a nearby boulder. Alistair turned to stare at her, perplexed, and Morrigan did not hide her annoyance. 

After a long moment to catch her breath, Olivia met Morrigan’s impatient gaze with a halfhearted smile. “Can we stop for the day?” Her voice was still breathy despite her best efforts to contain her exhaustion. 

With a spectacular frown, the witch crossed her arms over her chest. “We have barely even started. If we stop now, we will not reach Lothering for a fortnight.” 

“We’ve been walking all day,” Olivia placated her with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We're about halfway there, and out of the direct line of the darkspawn. Lothering will still be there.” She paused thoughtfully. “Probably.” 

Morrigan was not amused. “And do you think the darkspawn will be stopping to rest their tender feet while you do?” 

"I'll send them a formal request.” Olivia gave her a toothy grin, and Morrigan only scowled in return. 

“Perhaps we shall ask them to kindly return to the Deep Roads as well, while we are at it?” 

“Now you’re thinking!” 

The two women fell silent, their stares unyielding, and the air between them was charged with tension. Morrigan had squared her shoulders, her arms still crossed over her chest. Olivia had affected a callous grin, but her teeth gritted so fiercely together that it more resembled a snarl. 

After a long, torturous moment, Morrigan gave a flip of her head, tossing her fringe from her eyes, and turned to Alistair. “Perhaps we shall see how your fellow Warden feels?”

Olivia did the same. “Great idea! Alistair, what do you say?” 

His head whipped up at the sound of his name, and his voice was distant. “Hmmm?” 

Olivia furrowed her brow at him for a long moment before leaning back on one arm. She shrugged at Morrigan. “He says yes.”

The witch scoffed, and her frown deepened even further, a feat Olivia had been sure would be impossible. “You may find yourself less amusing when you are skewered on the end of a darkspawn sword.” 

“I hardly think the entire country will fall in one night just because I need a nap,” she responded. It was growing harder to keep her voice even when all she wanted in this world was to sleep. “And if it does, then I suppose it wasn’t very wise to leave the fate of Ferelden up to me after all, was it?”

“That, I already suspected.” Morrigan rewarded her with a pointed raise of a fine black brow and a malicious smirk, and it snapped the last thread of her patience. She pulled herself gingerly from the boulder and stood to her full height, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, and noted with great satisfaction that for all her condescension Morrigan was several inches shorter than she. 

“Morrigan.” Her voice was low, her words studded with danger. “I am tired, my boots are still wet, and, more importantly, my bloody ribs hurt. If you are so intent on continuing on, _you will have to carry me_.” 

There was a long pause while Morrigan studied her face. Finally, she unraveled her arms from her chest and stepped away with a shake of her head. 

“Very well. I suppose ’tis as good a spot to camp as any.” 

Olivia nodded, and kneeled beside her pack to keep her legs from swaying beneath her. “It’s a great place, actually,” she replied, matter-of-fact. She unloaded her bedroll and rolled it out on the flat patch of grass beside her boulder. “The Hinterlands are fertile, and we should have no trouble finding herbs and wildlife. I’ve seen some rabbits and squirrels running about. Usually from that direction, which might mean there is a stream there.”

She stood with a groan and sighed as she looked at her lumpy bedroll, wishing for a tent. Alistair had laid out his own a respectful distance from hers. Morrigan had set up in a corner further off, as though afraid she would catch the taint from them by sharing the same air for too long. Olivia shook her head. She planted her hands on her hips, surveying the space thoughtfully. 

“Right then, first thing’s first: we’ll need to build a fire.” She looked to Alistair, who was pulling blankets from his pack and carefully folding them in a pile. “Alistair, would you mind? I can take Hessarian out and try to find some rabbits for dinner, though he’ll have to do most of the work without any traps.” He nodded and gathered his lightened pack back onto his shoulders. She looked to where Morrigan was sorting vials. “Morrigan... Do you cook?”

The witch looked up at her rather sternly. “I do,” she answered, her eyes wary, “yes. I also know several different poisons that grow right here. Not that I would suggest ’tis at all related to cooking.” 

Olivia grinned in response to the thinly veiled threat. “Perfect! Then you’d know what sorts of herbs we could find here that we may need on our way. Would you mind gathering a few?” She gave the witch the sweetest smile she could muster, and Morrigan heaved an exasperated sigh, but nodded just the same. 

The three of them went in separate directions to complete their chores. Olivia was glad for a moment alone. Hessarian trotted happily at her side as she picked her way through the trees, listening to the sounds of the birds in the canopies. The trickle of water that had been distant before was becoming louder now, and she headed further into the forest. 

It had been a fair while since she had last hunted in Highever, but she had been tracking game since she was very young. She'd received extensive tutelage at her father’s insistence, and it had not been so long that she had lost her touch. Their camp was in an area that was highly populated by game, and she found no small amount of tracks and droppings left by rabbits. She was familiar with traps, but useless with a bow - her father had always told her that her aim would be much improved with a blindfold. Yet out here, she had access to neither, and would have to improvise. 

She and Hessarian found an easy pattern in the hunt, as though nothing had ever changed. She let the tracks lead her to her prey, and then sent Hessarian in after it. He would snap its neck in his jaws with an easy flick of his head and return to her looking entirely satisfied with himself, and it did not take them long to collect enough to feed the four of them for the night. 

The calm of the forest, the sound of the wind blowing through the trees, and the dampness in the air made her heart ache with homesickness. She had spent as much time as she could out in the forests around the Cousland estate, hiding in trees or chasing down rabbits with her mabari. Some days, her parents or Fergus would join her on horseback, and they would chase down foxes and deer together. They would then race their horses back to the estate with enormous grins, utterly carefree if only for a fleeting moment. 

The sun was sinking low toward the horizon when she and Hessarian came back to their little camp to find a cheerful, blazing fire. Morrigan knelt beside it, sharpening a long stick into a spit, and Alistair was nowhere to be found. Hessarian sat himself beside the fire, his eyes watchful, while Olivia lowered her quarry to a blanket Morrigan had laid out for skinning. The apostate looked up at her with a raised brow. She raised hers in return. 

“Where is Alistair?” 

Morrigan gave her a careless shrug. “He said he wished to bathe. Far be it for me to discourage him.” Olivia rolled her eyes and, sinking gingerly to her knees, pulled a knife from her boot. 

As she began slicing expertly into the first rabbit, Morrigan watched her, her gaze appraising. “I must admit, your knowledge of hunting and tracking surprises me,” she said conversationally. Olivia marveled at how easily condescension rolled off her tongue but she couldn’t help but smile, glancing up at the witch with a raised brow. 

“Your high opinion of the Grey Wardens is much appreciated.” 

“I have no opinion of the Grey Wardens,” Morrigan replied, impassive, “but a low one indeed of the noble class. You surprise me, in that respect.” 

Olivia's hand stilled, and she furrowed her brow at the other woman in surprise. She tried to steel her face into a mask of confusion. “And you have ascribed me to such a title? What makes you so certain?” 

Morrigan gave her a knowing smile, her eyes shining like molten gold in the low light. “It would seem your carriage and your manners tell tales you do not want told.” She reached out to take the proffered rabbit from Olivia’s outstretched hand and skewered it on her spit with a quick flick of her hand. “Soldiers are simple creatures, and do not have the presence of mind to apply such things. Your fellow Warden is a fine example of this. But nobles are born into pretense, and carry it in every action.” 

Olivia shook her head. “An accident of birth I hope you’ll forgive.” She paused in her work, and her next words were thick and cumbersome in her throat. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I am a Grey Warden now, and Grey Wardens hold no rank.” 

The witch hummed low in her throat. “Perhaps.” She did not elaborate further, and Olivia was grateful for an exit to the conversation. 

Despite how eagerly they seemed to butt heads otherwise, the two women found an easy rhythm in the preparation of their meal. She made quick work of her remaining prey in silence. 

Olivia stood with a pained groan and stretched her shoulders. She rolled up the now bloodstained blanket with her likewise bloodied hands. 

“I’m going to wash up. I’m rather tired of being covered in blood all the time.” She gave Morrigan a halfhearted grin. “If you were going to poison the food, here is your opportunity.” 

The sun had nearly disappeared from sight now, casting the land in muted hues of blue and pink. She could hear the song of crickets around her, could see the rare flicker of fireflies dancing among the trees. The smell of the fresh dew on the grass was sweet to her nose. It was a peaceful scene, the land untouched by the conflict that would soon overtake it, and she felt a pang of anxiety at the thought that it would soon be destroyed. 

When she finally came to the bank of the stream, it was to find Alistair standing with his back to her in only his trousers. His fingers worked to carefully unfold a clean white shirt, and she nearly choked on her tongue. He looked to have just finished bathing. His hair was wet, and the long expanse of his well-muscled back gleamed with condensation in the moonlight. Her eyes followed a small drop of water as it made its slow descent from his hair and down the curve of his spine, where it disappeared below the hem of his breeches. 

She felt her ears burning, but she could not tear her eyes away. If she found him distracting before, she was sure now that she would never sleep again. The way his muscles moved under the tanned skin of his broad shoulders as he pulled the shirt over his head was hypnotizing. The spell was only broken when he tugged the hem down over his hips. 

She shook the lecherous thoughts from her head and gave an audible cough, hoping to the Maker that it was too dark for him to see the fetching shade of red her face had turned. Though perhaps she should be saying a prayer that the Maker wouldn’t just strike her down instead. 

He turned his head toward the sound of her cough, and though his warm smile made her feel more unclean than the blood coating her hands, she returned it as best she could. 

“I’m sorry. I... didn’t mean to intrude,” she murmured, hovering awkwardly near the bush she had entered through. He shook his head, eyeing the mess in her hands with a small smile. 

“It’s all right. I take it the hunt went well?” 

She kneeled at the bank and plunged the ruined blanket into the water. Blood rose from the fabric and her hands like dancing red ribbons, and she watched as though transfixed, refusing to allow her eyes to travel anywhere near him from this angle. “Well enough. We won’t be eating like royalty, by any means, but we won’t starve either. Once we get to Lothering I’ll see about finding some traps.” She scrubbed the cloth in her hands against the bedrock of the stream. “It would be nice if we could get our hands on some tents, as well, for when it gets cold at night.” 

Alistair chuckled as he lowered himself to sit on a nearby rock, and the sound of it summoned gooseflesh to her skin despite the muggy air hanging between them. He began pulling on an old pair of leather boots, his fingers pulling deftly at the laces, and then gathering the pieces of his armor to stack them carefully into his pack. “I dunno, I found a really soft patch of dirt back at camp, I’m rather excited about it.” 

Olivia grinned. “Yes, and that patch of dirt will be even softer when it rains.” 

He scoffed. “Oh, she wants to be warm _and_ dry? You _are_ spoiled, my Lady.” 

She tried not to flinch at the honorific, affixing a smile instead. “What can I say? I’ve grown rather accustomed to a certain lifestyle.” 

He gave her a broad smile and she held up her blanket appraisingly. It seemed a bit redder than it had been before, but it was about as clean as it was going to get. She wrung the water from it and flung it over her shoulder as she stood. Alistair did the same, falling into step with her as they headed back toward camp. There was a light breeze, and it brought to her nose the sharp, clean smell of his soap. 

“Anyway, you’re one to talk about being spoiled,” she added with an arched brow, trying to block out the images of his bare skin that flooded her mind unbidden. “You with your clean clothes, and your bathing, like some kind of prince! A shameful display.” 

He fell silent at her words, and when she glanced up at him, she found him frowning. She swallowed nervously, confused by his sudden change in disposition, and their playful banter fell away. They spent the rest of the walk back to camp in uncomfortable silence. 

Dinner was simple, and Olivia found she was more ravenous than she had ever been in her life. She tore into her food in a way that made Hessarian look downright dainty. Alistair was no better, and Morrigan looked at them both with unveiled disgust. 

Despite the peaceful appearance of the area, they decided to split up into shifts for a night watch. Alistair volunteered for the first, and Olivia did not bother to argue with him. They divided once more. Morrigan retreated to her own little camp and Alistair settled down at the base of a nearby tree that offered a good view of the area.

Her bedroll was calling to her now, and every bone in her body felt ten times heavier than normal. With slow, careful movements, she shucked her filthy armor down to her sleeveless undershirt and leggings. She reveled in the breeze on her skin and the cool grass under her feet, and didn’t bother unraveling her hair. She didn’t have the patience to deal with the unruly mess she would inevitably find it in. 

As she settled into her bedroll, her gaze landed on Alistair, who was staring at her in return. She raised a brow, and he blinked, startled, looking as though she had just pulled him out of deep concentration. She pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees, giving him a small smile. 

“How are you feeling?” 

His brow furrowed, and he was silent for a long moment, as if he didn’t understand her question. 

She offered him a small smile. “About Duncan? Do you... want to talk about it?” 

"Oh." He looked away from her, but not before she could see the sorrow that creased his features. “You don’t have to do that,” he said quietly, and his voice was hard. “I know you didn’t know him as long as I did.” 

He sounded so sad, probably despite himself, and she hugged her arms tighter around herself. She swallowed thickly and thought of the bitterness she had shown Duncan in his final days, when he had saved her life and kept her safe. She had repaid him poorly for his kindness. He had deserved a better recruit than her, and yet the better candidates lay dead at Ostagar with him. It was a cruel irony, and she clenched her teeth against it. 

“No,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t mourn his loss.” Their gazes met once again, and in the dark of the night she could see the reflection of flames dancing in his eyes. “I know he was like a father to you.” 

He nodded, looking down at his hands. The sound of crickets seemed deafening in the long silence. “I… should have handled it better." His voice cracked on the words. "Duncan warned me right from the beginning that this could happen. Any of us could die in battle. I shouldn’t have lost it, not when so much is riding on us, not with the Blight and… and everything.” He looked back up at her, and her stomach did a small flip at the sincerity on his face. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize.” Her smile was weak, but genuine. 

With a long sigh, he let his head fall back against the tree with a heavy thump. “I’d… like to have a proper funeral for him. Maybe once this is all done, if we’re still alive. I don’t think he had any family to speak of.” 

She remembered the way Duncan had looked at Alistair, remembered the way it had reminded her of her father. “He had you.” 

At first she thought he hadn’t heard her. Her words had been quiet, hesitant, and he did not respond for a long time. But finally, slowly, he raised his head to gaze at her. “I suppose he did.” His voice was raw and hoarse. “It probably sounds stupid, but part of me wishes I was with him. In the battle. I feel like abandoned him.” 

Waves of anxiety crested inside her chest, threatening to pull her down and suffocate her in its depths. She gritted her teeth against it, swallowing down the wail that strangled her. 

_Then go, Pup. Warn your brother_. 

Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to give way to them. 

_Do us proud._  

“It’s not stupid,” she whispered, and her voice broke. She could feel his eyes on her now, but could not bring herself to meet them. 

If he sensed her impending doom, he showed no indication. “I think he came from Highever, or so he said. Maybe I’ll go up there sometime, see about putting up something in his honor. I don’t know.” 

Highever. Perhaps that was how he’d known her father. The reason he was in the right place, at the right time. 

“Have you… had someone close to you die?” Her head snapped up then, her gaze sharp. He balked. “Not that I mean to pry, I’m just…” The sentence seemed to die in his throat. 

It was an innocent question, with an answer that crushed her and stole the breath from her lungs. He didn’t know. It wasn’t his fault. But she wanted to scream, wanted to beat something until she felt better. She wanted to go home and hear her mother sing to her. 

She almost couldn’t find the strength to answer him. “I’ve lost enough to know what you’re going through.” It wasn’t an answer, not really. But it was all she could give him. 

They stared at one another for a long time, and she could feel the single tear that managed to escape from her eye. She didn’t bother wiping it away. She knew by the way his forehead wrinkled that he had seen it. Her jaw ached from suppressing the flood that lay just behind the thin veneer of her self-control. 

“Yes, I… imagine you really have, haven’t you?” His voice was little more than a whisper, and his eyes tracked the traitorous tear as it traveled down her cheek and to her top lip. She was thankful for the distance that kept him from seeing her tremble. Finally he gave her a halfhearted smile. “I’m sorry I’ve kept you awake. You should get some sleep.”

She nodded in return and hunkered down into her bedroll, pillowing her head in the crook of her arm. The ground was hard beneath her and her ribs gave a pulsating protest of discomfort, but it was good to finally be off her feet. Alistair had pulled out his sword and was quietly polishing the blade, looking thoughtful. 

“Er... Olivia?” His voice was hesitant when he called out to her a long moment later, and she blinked in surprise at the softness with which he spoke her name. “Thank you. Really, I mean it. It was good to talk about it, at least a little.” 

She nodded again, though she knew he couldn't see it. 

She was beyond exhausted, and yet despite the reprieve her body had found, her mind was reeling more than ever. The day had been so _long_. In the blink of an eye, she had gone from a Warden recruit with a slightly untoward attitude, to the last great hope of Ferelden. And she didn’t know the first thing about how to slay an archdemon. It was too much, and she felt as though she would start screaming any moment. She was just some noble brat, not even the heir of her family name. How was she supposed to save the entire country? How could the fate of so many people rest in such incapable hands? Her chance at success was painfully low, yet the consequences for failure could not have been higher.

Despite her desperate fretting, sleep eventually caught up to her. When she could not keep her eyelids open a moment longer, it finally pulled her into its velvety embrace. 

Her last thoughts as she drifted off were of her brother, waif-thin and grey with the Blight, begging her to end him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, this chapter was a nightmare to write. I'm sorry if it became the jumbled mess that I suspect it is, but that's why it took so long. I think my writing is actually deteriorating as I get further into this. But hooray for self-indulgent descriptions of shirtless ex-Templars, if nothing else.


	8. Mercy

With the hills of the Hinterlands and Olivia's still-healing injuries, they took four more days to reach Lothering. They spent those long hours of walking in uncomfortable silence. Morrigan seemed to have lost all desire for conversation, for which Olivia was rather grateful, while Alistair moped in mournful silence. Despite the strangely easy rhythm they had found each night to the setup of camp, they spent each one in a silence more awkward than the last.

This left Olivia with only her thoughts for company, which did nothing to ease the anxiety and desperation that had lodged themselves like leeches in her gut. The land was untouched by the Blight, and that should have comforted her. But the peace was a lie, and instead she felt deeply unsettled. Every cheerful chirp of the birds in the trees needled her. They became a mocking reminder of everything that was lost - everything that would be lost if she should fail.

Once they came upon the Imperial Highway, they began to see the first dregs of refugees. Those with horses and carts plodded along the road at a miserable pace. Those on foot hunched beneath packs laden with what were probably the only belongings left to them in the world. Olivia had a feeling her own cobbled-together band did not look much better.

The groups of refugees grew more frequent the closer they came to Lothering. Despite her better judgment, Olivia carefully scanned each face that passed. The chances that Fergus had escaped the Wilds alive were slim to none. She knew that. But if she gave up on him, she was not sure she would be able to get back up and move forward. If her small bit of delusion was the only thing that got her to Lothering, then at least she would get there.

They kept a steady pace out of necessity, even as hopeless-looking refugees drifted past in a dolorous sea. Morrigan seemed altogether unaffected by the beleaguered faces, but wretched guilt twisted Alistair’s face while he tried to ignore them. She was sure her own face held the same. They had played a passive role in the failure to stop the darkspawn. But it was hard not to feel responsible for the misfortune they found around them. Each face told a story of sorrow punctuated by the heavy trod of exhausted feet in the soil below.

When they finally came upon the enormous stone bridge that led to Lothering, any relief she might have felt at the sight of it was immediately quelled by the immense line of people that trailed from it. The entrance to the city was through a stone arch just off the Highway, and that arch had clogged to a standstill.

The line stretched several lengths, and camps filled with disgruntled faces spotted the areas on all sides. Olivia's brow furrowed in confusion. When she looked to Alistair, he was scanning the crowd, equally perplexed. He glanced back to her and shrugged.

Morrigan examined the small camps around them with a raised brow. "Denied entry to the village, perhaps?" she wondered, and Olivia's frown deepened. Was the town so full already?

"I'll go see what's happening," Alistair announced, and she nodded. He slipped ahead of them and disappeared into the crowd.

Olivia's eyes caught a nearby family camped beside the road and she felt unease prickle at her skin. A woman was weeping into her husband's shoulder, an infant cradled in the crook of her arm.

When Alistair reemerged, his face was stormy and his nostrils flared. "Highwaymen," he said darkly. "Preying on those fleeing the darkspawn, I suppose. They're charging a toll to get into the village." His lips pursed, and he glanced to the weeping woman.

She recoiled. "How can they rob these people of what little coin they have left?"

Morrigan tapped her fingers idly against her staff. Her expression was unreadable as she inspected the people ahead. "Scavenging dogs always prey on that which cannot defend itself," she said. "They think themselves predators when they are simply cleaning up after the real hunters."

Olivia's teeth clenched, and her eyes burned hot with rage. "Then let's see how they like being the prey." Without another word, she marched into the crowd toward the entrance of the village. Hessarian stalked at her side, head low and ears perked upright, ready for a fight.

A chorus of alarmed screams rose up as she weaved through the knot of bodies and toward the arch. Olivia did not spare a moment to wonder. She broke into a run, pushing urgently through the clustered group that blocked her view.

When she finally broke through the veil of refugees, she felt the blood drain from her face. The highwaymen were looming over the prostrate and armored body of a templar. One of the men, scrawny and scruffy, held himself so pompously that she could only assume he was the leader. He held a bloodied sword in one hand, a large bag of coin in the other, and he was laughing. The crowd had backed far from the grizzly scene. The sea of terrified faces only watched as the bandit kicked the body of the templar away with a scoff.

“Olivia, what - “ Alistair and Morrigan had finally caught up with her. They stopped short as soon as they escaped the throng, and Alistair’s eyes narrowed. When she jerked her head towards the bandits, he nodded without hesitation.

Olivia felt a strange calm fall over her as they marched across the bridge. She did not pull out her weapons, though her fingers twitched with the desire. She simply stared down the leader of the highwaymen with a face of stone, the crowd murmuring behind her.

The leader grinned, arrogant and callous, when he noticed their approach. He tossed the bag in his hand to a pile behind him, and signaled to his men. “Wake up, gentlemen! More travelers to attend to.” He gave her a lecherous grin, unaffected by the glare he received in return. “I’d guess the pretty one is the leader.”

His oafish second, however, blanched when she turned her gaze to him.

“Err… they don’t look much like them others, you know," he stuttered. "Uh… maybe we should just let these ones pass…” His eyes flicked to Alistair, who was easily as tall as he was and much better armed - and then to Morrigan, who was smirking, eyeing him like a cat outside a birdcage.

The thinner man scoffed. “Nonsense! Greetings, travelers!”

Olivia laced her arms over her chest, fingers clenching against the hard scales of her armor. “We weren’t aware Lothering was enforcing a toll to the refugees entering their village.” She glanced down at the still bleeding corpse of the templar at their feet. “Seems he wasn’t aware either. Strange, that.”

The highwayman grinned, cocky still. “Now is that any way to greet someone?” He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. Her face twitched in rhythm with the sound. “A simple ten silvers and you’re free to move on.”

Hessarian gave a low growl of warning, and she reached out to lay a hand atop his large head. “You should listen to your friend," she warned. "We’re not refugees.”

The larger man looked to his leader, worried. “What did I tell you?" His hands waved in a frantic gesture toward the two Wardens. "No wagons, and these two look armed.” She heard Morrigan scoff behind her.

The leader laughed. Olivia was starting to suspect he was either incredibly stupid, or so convinced of his own nonexistent superiority that he didn’t have the sense to know when he was in danger.

“The toll applies to everyone, Hanric," he drawled. "That’s why it’s a toll, and not, say, a refugee tax.”

“Ohhh, right.” The oaf nodded sagely. “Even if you’re no refugee, you still gotta pay.”

“I have a better idea,” she said, low and dangerous, giving them a feral smile. Her hand rose to the hilt of the dagger at her back. “How about instead, you give back everything you’ve stolen from these people, and I won’t split you from your neck down to those pathetic pebbles you call testicles.”

Finally, he blanched, his eyes wide, and it was just as satisfying as she had imagined it would be. She heard a sputter behind her that she was sure was from Alistair. Her dangerous smile grew.

He struggled to regain his composure. When his face returned to the cocky smirk, his eyes retained the fear. “N-no can do, good lady. We have rules, you know.”

His second nodded, though she could see the fear in his face as well. “Right. We get to ransack your corpse, then. Those are the rules.”

Her smile melted from her face in an instant, and the anger that had been simmering below it found a footing.

“Oh, you can certainly try.”

The leader laughed, with almost imperceptible hesitation, before pulling his sword from its sheath. His lackeys grinned hungrily at them. “Well, this is going nowhere," he declared. "Let’s finish this, gents!”

The ring of steel echoed around her like a song, and the air crackled with the ozone smell of magic. The buffoonish second dodged past Alistair to bear down on Morrigan. He looked quite pleased with himself, but the witch grinned. In a blink, the fool was blasted backward in a cloud of fire; his terrified screams were fuel for Morrigan’s laughter. Hessarian took down a nearby bandit with a single leap. The gruesome sound of tearing flesh and desperate shrieking painted the background of the fight.

The leader lunged at Olivia, sword wobbling and feet tangling over one another. His technique was slow and untrained, and she whipped her weapons in front of her before he could connect the blow. His sword clanged against her crossed blades, useless. She kicked him square in the chest, heard the whoosh of air from his lungs, and he went pinwheeling backwards through two goons who were exhausting themselves against Alistair’s defenses. Alistair blinked up at her, signaled his thanks, and she grinned in response.

Sluggish from his fall and groaning from exertion, the bandit leader extricated himself from the blanket of his lackeys. His mocking grin had given way to impotent rage, and Olivia stalked toward him, flourishing her sword with eyes that sparked like flint. His every move spoke of desperation. He barreled toward her, swinging his sword wildly, and she parried each swipe with ease. She could see the whites of his eyes as they darted back and forth, landing on each of his adversaries like panicked bees. They flitted first to Morrigan, perched disdainfully above his whimpering second, and then to Alistair and Hessarian, burly and watchful over the other two. Finally accepting he was outmatched, the leader swept his leg out at Olivia’s ankles in a last desperate move, trying to take her feet out from underneath her. She pivoted, annoyed, snapped her elbow into his nose, before lodging her forearm under his neck and slamming him against the wall behind him. She heard the crack of cartilage and a pitiful wail before blood gushed down his face and dripped onto her arm.

“All right!” He was practically sobbing through the pain of his broken nose. “We surrender! We - We - We’re just trying to get by, before the darkspawn get us all!”

“Get by?” she snarled, jolting his head back against the stones for good measure. He wailed again. “You call preying on helpless refugees who have lost everything they have ‘ _getting by_ ’? You’re stealing these people’s lives!” She leveled the point of her dagger to his face. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t gut you like the pigs you are.”

“Y-Yes, I’m a criminal; I admit it. I apologize.” He sounded hysterical and not a bit sincere. She increased the pressure against his neck. “P-Please.” He choked, and flecks of blood sprayed her face, bitter and coppery on her lips. “I was just trying to feed my family, you know?”

“Liar.”

He released a pathetic whimper. She glared at him, silent and seething, for a long, charged moment. Her fingers flexed on the hilt of her dagger. Such a short distance to his throat. A flick of the wrist, and the world would be rid of one more pathetic leech. But she could feel him trembling beneath her, powerless in the face of a foe that could defend herself, and knew there was no point. He was a threat to nobody.

She sheathed her dagger and backed away, lip curling in revulsion. He immediately fell to his knees and clutched his nose.

“Start running," she snapped. "And don’t come back.”

He was on his feet and running in an instant. “Bless you! The darkspawn can have this place!”

She turned to watch the bandits depart at full gallop, and her companions collected beside her to do the same. Morrigan planted her hands on her hips, tilting her head to gaze at Olivia from the side of her eyes.

“Your mercy was more than they deserved,” she remarked casually.

Olivia turned to meet the witch’s golden gaze with an expression molded from stone. The disinterest and vague amusement she found in the other woman’s face mounted her rage even more. Was she the only person who gave a damn about anyone but herself?

Was this what she was supposed to save?

“They won’t last two seconds out there against the darkspawn," she replied frigidly. "There was nothing merciful about it.”

She didn’t want to look at that sneer for a moment longer. Without another word, she turned on her heel and stalked toward the entrance of the village.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, I'm not dead. For some reason my ability to write shriveled up and died like the first sentence into this chapter, and so the beginning of the chapter is a bit rough because of it.
> 
> Also I had not intended to split Lothering into two chapters but this whole scene kinda turned into a bigger thing than I had originally intended, and I didn't want to bury it underneath all the other huge stuff that happens in Lothering so alas, I apologize for how long-winded this fic is turning out to be. But when I mapped out the gameplay of Lothering into the form of written events, I realized just how thoroughly GARBAGE that place is, and I feel like Olivia would be so beyond fed up with all of it so soon after Ostagar.
> 
> Anyway, I promise there will be more fluff soon - I can't stay away from it for long.
> 
> ALSO, last note, **[I've landed on a faceclaim for Olivia](http://cdn1-www.craveonline.com/assets/uploads/2014/03/Lindsey-Morgan.jpg)** \- without realizing it I built her to look exactly like Lindsey Morgan, so imagine her with black hair and green eyes and you've got her. I also made a page for Olivia on my Tumblr with non-spoilery stats and images, so if anyone's interested, **[you can find that here.](http://grrowlithe.tumblr.com/wardenbio)** Feel free to follow my blog if you wanna watch me cry over Dragon Age or send me prompts.


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